Mass Effect: The New Face of War
by ProfFartBurger
Summary: It is said that War never Changes; Men do, through the roads they walk, but War does not. The Humans fought The First War, and alongside the Quarians, the Alliance stands tall against the Galaxy in the face of continued adversity. Now Humanity's place is challenged, their power tested, and age-old beliefs are shattered when a beyond-ancient species is forced onto the playing field.
1. Prologue

_/N:_

_Alrighty, folks! The moment you've all been waiting for!  
>I won't waste your time with too terribly many details, but do pay attention to the AN at the end of the chapter, as it will state my **Release Schedule.**_

_Finally, to keep this brief:  
>For the newcomers, this story is a <strong>sequel<strong> to my previous story: Mass Effect: The First War.  
>That story, this one, and the others in the War Series are all Alternate Universe representations of the ME Universe, with a Humanity of my own make, canon, and volition added onto it.<br>So, obviously, everything henceforth is to be considered **non canon.**_

_Now that we've gotten that out of the way, I hope you enjoy the tale I've got to tell!  
>For your consideration:<em>

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><p><em><strong>Mass Effect: The New Face of War<strong>_

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><p><em>Prologue:<em>

* * *

><p><em>"I have walked through valleys of sin and oceans of night. I have looked daemons and traitors in their eyes. I have heard the whispers of dark things that wanted my soul. And never once have I encountered anything that has struck the fear into me that a Xenos would feel if it ever truly understood the resolve of the Human Race."<em>

**_— Daenyathos, "Reliquerae Tactica," Warhammer 40000_**

* * *

><p><strong><em>2124<br>_**

_The National Aeronautics and Space Administration is the first successful space organization to successfully land a man on Mars, and keep him alive and healthy. As the Humans of Earth celebrate, NASA remains stunned by a chance discovery a few miles from the landing zone, at Mars' Southern Pole: An Alien Installation. Later, this installation would become known as 'The Prothean Ruins'._

**_2146:_**

_After decades of rapid advancement, the over-arching government for the Human Race, and their public 'face', should they be contacted by extraterrestrial species, the Human Systems Alliance, escorts the first Colony Ship to Eden, the closest planet to Sol, that is proven to be able to support Human Life. Using Warp Transit, the Human Race's solution to the light speed limit, the colonists successfully arrive on Eden, and colonization efforts soon begin._

**_2150:_**

_After four years of intense research and development, the Systems Alliance Advancement Task Force (Known colloquially as the 'AATF'.) succeeds in creating two of Humanity's three most important creations in their brief history. Truly sentient artificial intelligences are created, and within decades are integrated into every level of Human Society: Political, Military, and Civilian. Their second creation would be that which would remain beyond top secret for more than a half century: SIGMA Operatives, Humanity's first generation Super Soldiers._

**_2150:_**

_The Humans discover an enormous object in the Eden System. The object, soon called the 'Tuning Gate', is quickly discovered to be a means of supra-light speed travel, faster even than Warp Travel. The Alliance scrambles to hide the Tuning Gate from the public eye, while simultaneously trying to prepare for an inevitable, and imminent First Contact._

**_2201_**

_The Human Systems Alliance, through experimentation with Tuning Gate Travel, discovers the Quarian Migrant Fleet. On the verge of societal and structural collapse, and risking their very existence, the Quarians initiate first contact with the Humans, and the two quickly enter a mutually beneficial alliance, the Quarians settle on Human worlds as their ships are fixed and assimilated into the Alliance Navy, and the Humans gain Quarian technology._

_However, due to previous events done by rogue Quarian Captains, the Turian Hierarchy - hot on the trail of the Migrant Fleet - finds a Human planet and - under the impression that it is a Quarian Colony - proceeds to invade it with overwhelming force. The defending Human, and surviving Quarian forces manage to send a message to Earth, warning it of an impending attack._

_The Hierarchy, under the impression that the Humans were just noisy primitives uplifted by the Quarians, invaded the Sol System with two of their main fleets, but the Humans - using their unique technology and home-field advantage - devastate the Turian fleets, and dominate the invading forces on Earth._

_War is quickly declared upon the Hierarchy, and after a failed attempt at negotiations, the Citadel Council declares war upon the Humans. However, in a surprise blitzkrieg, the Humans divert the entirety of the Citadel Navy to Thessia, while they attack Palaven._

_After abducting the Turian Primarch, and the Turian Councilor, the Alliance Director of Affairs attempts to force hostilities to end, or have the Turians risk the destruction of their homeworld. The Turian Councilor calls the Human's bluff, and in response, the Humans__ trick all of Citadel Space into believing that they deployed a high-grade Nuclear Weapon that destroyed Palaven in its entirety. The ruse was quickly lifted after the formal Turian surrender._

_Hostilities are quickly ended between the two species, and the Humans delay heading for the Citadel for two weeks, as they prepare their forces and solidify their defenses._

_After a lengthy peace-negotiation, the Human-Turian War (Known in the Alliance as the 'Second Contact War') is ended._

_**2201**_

_The Human Systems Alliance (And all species therein) is declared a sovereign entity, held apart from the Citadel Council and the Terminus systems. The Humans - now knowing of what hides around the celestial corner - experience a major territorial boom as the Alliance expands its borders. The Galaxy is still wary of the Alliance, more specifically, the Quarian influence upon the galaxy's newcomers, the Human Race. The Council believes that a Sleeping Giant has awakened, thanks to the Human-Turian War, and unfortunately for the Council, the very same species that had been downtrodden for centuries, are the Giant's largest allies._

_After several brushfire wars with dozens of small mercenary organizations and Pirate bands - who had all violently attempted besiege Human worlds and take Human and Quarian slaves, the Human Systems Alliance solidified its status as a Galactic Superpower, on par with the Citadel Council. The Mercenary organizations and Pirate bands in question were all completely destroyed with ruthless efficiency, in the wars lasting less than two and a half Alliance Standard Years._

_**2206**_

_After being lifted from the ship-production limitations that had been agreed upon during the peace negotiations, the Alliance begins to rapidly escalate its ship creation levels, to accommodate with its rapidly increasing territory, and to protect itself from the Citadel Council and any other threats that come with the territory of galactic status. The Alliance and the Council quickly enter a Cold War, during which they both build their military presence._

_**2208**_

_After very narrowly avoiding having its military collapse under its own economic strain, the Citadel Council and the Human Alliance 'end' the Cold War in the public eye, but behind closed doors both are still very much working to outdo the other. The Citadel Council - the 'Big Three' and their client races still highly divided over the Military Budget - is trying to crack the secrets to Human Technology, and the Humans and Quarians - species with such close ties they are colloquially called 'Sibling Species' - are working to advance their own technology and further separate it from the rest of the Galaxy._

_**2209**_

_After convincing the Systems Alliance Parliament that the SIGMA Program (An Alliance Military program that had forged Super Soldiers before, during, and after the Second Contact War) was obsolete in many, varied ways, Christopher McGraw laid the foundations for the SIGMA II's, child-soldiers selected from war-orphans and other Human Children._

_**2209**_

_John Shepard is recruited into the SIGMA II Program, rechristened as 'John-S2-15'_

_Tests performed on the child, as a prerequisite for joining the program, proved that the child does, indeed, have biotic potential._

_**2210**_

_While exploring systems for colonization, the Alliance decides to look towards a cluster of stars that formed an Earth constellation. Upon arriving at one of the clusters that makes up 'Orion's Belt', the Humans discover a new species, that is on par with Human technology as it was in the late 2000's, but more advanced in other ways. The species - Saltorians - are kept secret from the Council and the Humans decide to watch the Saltorians, who aren't at all close to cracking Eezo FTL, or Warp Technology, but are advanced enough where they have terraformed and colonized one of the planets in their home system. (The 'Saltorian Deployment' is quickly known as the graveyard shift in the Alliance Navy, as little to nothing_ ever_ happens in the system.)_

* * *

><p><em>November, 2209<em>

* * *

><p>John S2-15's bones ached. He could feel his stomach churning, his spine aching, his knees creaking like an old man's, and his very sore muscles screaming for rest. His eyelids were heavier than they'd ever been, and he was more tired than he could ever remember being. His entire body was sore, and he knew for a fact that he'd never worked so hard in the few short years in this galaxy; he didn't even know if he could work this hard ever again.<p>

The worst part was that it had only been an hour since the day had begun.

When he, Doctor Mossman, and Mister McGraw had landed on a planet only ever referred to as 'Sparta', medics had gone right to work on the boy. His injuries from days previous were checked and healed using technology he couldn't even recognize, he was given more shots and immunization treatments than he could count, and they'd shaved off all of his dark brown hair. In addition to that, he'd been forced through dozens of tests, the last one of which he'd passed, much to the amazement of the examiners, who had promptly declared him a 'potential biotic', whatever _that_ meant. He had then been introduced to his instructors, and from his first impressions from the day before this, he didn't think McGraw's words of being welcomed to Hell would ring true.

Of course, then John, who's last name had been stripped and rebranded with the 'S2' title and the '15' serial number, woke up the following day. This day, he'd woken up far before the sun, the first time he could remember _ever_ doing so. At first he thought it was a mistake of the instructors', and tried to go back to sleep, but when he was quickly and roughly yanked out of his bed by the sheets and told to line up, he got his first taste of what the rest of the day would be like.

Their primary physical exercise, combat training, and all-around instructor, Joseph Ducard S1-99, a SIGMA One and a veteran of most every war that the Alliance had been in, had told them what they could expect. He said that they had twelve years _minimum_ to turn these children from 'snot-nosed turd machines' to highly effective, universally efficient, and nigh-unkillable walking talking thinking and breathing machines of death. Ducard (Who only ever wanted to be referred to as 'Commander' or 'Sir', and had actually punched the kid who'd called him 'mister'.) told the SIGMA Kids that they would be broken in body and mind, and reformed into lethal killing machines in the name of their one and only race, the Humans of the Systems Alliance.

He told them that it would be the hardest parts of their lives, but it would be more than worth it in the end. He told them that they would begin with the 'lightest' boot-camp, the one designed around the Alliance Navy. He said that they'd drill like space-men until they were ten years old, at which point they'd upgrade to the Alliance Army's _far_ tougher training regiment. Following that they'd be turned into Marines, then trained in the ways of the N7 Special Forces, and finally in the ways of the Orbital Dropping Death Dealers. When they hit seventeen, they were expected to be able to defeat a fully armored Orbital Dropping Death Dealer with no armor for themselves, and no weapons to speak of, aside from their hands and feet. It was when the SIGMA Kids hit seventeen that they would train like honest-to-god_SIGMA_ Operatives, and he made it clear, on no uncertain terms whatsoever, that the year separating their seventeenth and eighteenth birthdays would be worse than all the others combined, with no exceptions.

Many of the children didn't think the man was telling them the truth, until they began their Physical Training. Their first feat of physical exertion was to run a quarter of a mile to a flagpole and back to the barracks. That alone had taken Delta Company - the company of eighty children, in which John had found himself - upwards of twenty minutes, which Ducard had called unacceptable, John and many others had noticed that he didn't even look tired, not even after the fifty pushups they all were made to do, in synchronous movements. That had taken them at least thirty minutes, because each time someone fell out of line, they did it all over again. Then the last ten minutes, of their first hour, had been spent doing jumping jacks, also in synchronous movements.

John was now in the mess hall, he had never been so thirsty or so hungry, but he felt like he could hardly keep down a single bite of food, or a single swig of drink. He forced some of the most disgusting food he'd ever eaten down his throat and drank half of the glass of water, which he truly doubted should have been called such, before Ducard had called them all up once again. Very few had actually gotten through their meals, but Ducard shook his head and told them that they would _have_ to eat faster if they ever wanted to train on full stomachs, because he wouldn't wait for them, and neither would their enemies.

Their second run for the day had taken longer than the first, and many times the entire company had to halt in order for the kids to empty their stomachs, due to the raw physical exertion their young bodies were being subjected to. John himself wanted desperately to throw up, but he'd seen what Ducard had done to the boys that had done so, he'd shouted of how each morsel that was being ejected from them was a sign of weakness, how their body was showing them that they were too weak to finish the run, and that _he_ would show them how to fight their own body's natural reactions, if they grew up, let their 'balls drop' (Whatever _that_ meant!) and trained with him and their 'brothers'.

John knew not what Ducard meant by calling all eighty of them brothers. His late mother had never, _ever_ told him that he had a single sister, let alone eighty brothers. He had kindly brought this up to Ducard, who had simply - but angrily, and very seriously - responded by telling him that, after they worked, bled, and sweated together for twelve years, they would _all_ be family. He had then even gone so far as to say that, when they entered combat, the SIGMA II's would be closer than ever, he said that, when they were finished, they would be so close that they could tell what they would be ready to do before they could do it, they could see what they were thinking just by looking at them; in the SIGMA Operations, family wasn't blood, it was _bond. _Then he'd made John - and all of Delta Company - do fifty push-ups. John didn't like where he was, not at all. But when he sat down to eat his lunch, he remembered his last meal with his late mother, how she had told him she loved him, before she had gotten a call and had to leave him with Mister and Missus Williams. That had made John remember just what he had signed on to do: he wanted to make the aliens that had killed his mother _pay!_

"Hi!" Said a new voice, that jolted John from his dark reverie. John looked to his right, and saw a dark skinned young boy sit next to him. The boy looked like he'd had his head _waxed,_ as opposed to shaved, and he had a smile on his face, as opposed to the scowl or the tired frown on the faces of the other children in the mess hall. "What's your name?" The kid asked.

"John." Said John, "John S2... Fifteen." He had a slight amount of trouble recalling his serial number, but it always came to him in the end.

"Ah." Said the kid, who extended his hand, "I'm Justin. Justin S2-99" Another, slightly heavier 'thump' came to John's left, "the giant's George. George S2-66." He smiled.

John shook Justin's hand, and then George's. Justin was a tall kid, even for his age, he had to be at least three and half, maybe four feet tall. His dark brown skin helped to mask his darker brown eyes, and his lean build gave John the impression that he was fast on his feet, and could pack a punch. However, if Justin was tall, George, on the other hand, was a giant of a kid. He had to be at least one and a half times John's three and a half foot height, and looked like he had the athletic and muscular build of a ten year old. George had tanned white skin, and a shaved head of black hair. His dark green eyes completely betrayed his tough, muscular build, the look of kindness behind those two green orbs made John think he wouldn't harm a fly, let alone another living, thinking, sentient being.

"Where were you, before you came here?" George asked, his accent a thick Earthen English, and his tone a slight bit deeper than someone of his age should have.

"Eden." Said John, shyly.

"I came from Earth." Said Justin.

"Roof." George supplied.

"Really?" John asked, a smile stretching across his face, "what was roof like? My mommy told me it was tough there, but real pretty at night."

"Well, I spent most of my time outside during the day." He tapped his biceps, "my foster father wanted a home full of football players, see. So during the day, we played football, during the night, we ate and we slept."

"So… You never saw Roof's roof?" John asked.

"Oh no, I did. The green neb… Neb… Nebular, behind the rings? It looks real cool."

"I was raised in New York." Justin mentioned, picking at his food as he listened to George and John.

"What was that like?" George asked.

"Lonely. My dad died during the Second Contact War, and my mom gave me to an orphanage. When Professor Burga came to find me, I accepted right away." He said, "but I'll never forget my first view of the city. Have either of you heard of the space scraper?" Justin received two shaking heads, "well, some guy told one of the builder guys that it would be cool to build a building so big, so tall, that it could be seen from orbit. So they did, and now we've got the space scraper."

"That's so cool!" Said John, gleefully, as he too ate his food.

"What was Eden like, John?" George prodded.

"Yeah, I heard that it was untouched by the Mercnary and the Second Contact wars!" Justin mentioned.

"It was kind of boring, actually." John mentioned, "the moon was boring, my house was boring… The only cool thing was Mister Williams."

"Who's Mister Williams?"

"He's a _marine!"_ John said proudly, "he fighted during the mercenary wars -"

"Mercnary." Justin corrected.

"Mercnary wars, and he saw some of the SIGMA guys in action!"

"Whoa, what are they like?"

"I don't remember…" John looked down in shame.

"Aw, it's okay." Said Justin, "according to mis - _Commander_ Ducard, _we'll_ be those guys, in a few years!"

"That'll be _so cool…"_ George mentioned.

The three continued idle chatter for several minutes, eventually the conversation landed upon what Justin called his 'stupid Human trick'. Justin could curl his tongue, and George was able to cross both of his eyes in opposing directions. The conversation came to John, who shrugged.

"I... Don't really have one." The kid said.

"Oh, bologna!" Justin jeered, "you've got to be able to to something!"

"Yeah, come on, what's your secret?" George prodded, with a smile on his face.

"Well..." John shuffled his feet and stared at his empty lunch tray, "I know some magic tricks..."

"Can you show us?" Justin asked eagerly.

"Sure." Said John.

It was always an effort for the child, ever since he'd learned Magic, to summon it. It always felt like he was running really fast, it felt great while he was doing it, but when he was done, it was exhausting. He squinted his eyes tight as he concentrated, feeling in his mind for the 'spark' that always brought forth the feeling of power his Magic provided. Several seconds of nothing, and as Justin was preparing a comment, John found the spark. Instantly his body was enveloped in a violet aura, and after a small groan of effort, the tray in front of John began floating in the air, enveloped by a violet field.

_"Whoa!"_ Said a wide-eyed Justin.

"That's so cool..." George marveled, blinking at the tray, which slowly floated back to the ground.

John smiled slowly, but he was physically exhausted, worse than any run he'd had to do with Commander Ducard.

_"EVERYONE UP!"_ The trio heard suddenly. Eighty young heads started looking around for the garbled, electronic voice's source, but the voice didn't give them the chance, _"WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?!" _It bellowed, _"GET UP! WE'VE ONLY GOT TEN HOURS LEFT IN THE DAY, WE'VE GOT TO GET YOU WORKING RIGHT NOW! GIVE ME FIFTY!"_ John, Justin, and George all hesitated for only a moment, before they - and the seventy seven other children - obeyed the unseen voice and began pumping out push-ups, right there in the middle of the mess hall.

Several minutes later, when the kids' arms felt like jelly, and their legs were barely able to haul themselves back to their feet, they were furtherly admonished by Ducard, who slammed through the mess hall's entrance, angrier than ever.

"What are you doing!?" He roared angrily, "you're just going to bend over and accept orders from an unknown, synthesized voice?! How do you know that wasn't an enemy, and he wasn't trying to get you all low to the ground so you could inhale a poison he'd lathered all over the _floors?!"_ He demanded, "I want everyone up and out of here, in formation, and ready to work in thirty seconds!" No one moved,_"COME ON!"_ He roared.

The rest of the day was spent in rigorous exercise. What time wasn't spent running, working out, or performing calisthenics, was spent under the ever-becoming-louder voice of their instructor. Ducard had all but assured them that they would only _ever_ be working harder and harder as time went on. He assured them that they would - within the year - be working on hand-to-hand battles, and within the month would be working on their marksmanship skills. He assured them that ranged and melee weapons would become so ingrained on their minds that they would feel utterly _naked_ without them, when they were finished.

For hours, until the moon was high in the sky, John, Justin, and George, as well as the dozens of other children in Delta Company, worked harder and harder than the hour previously. No one kept their lunches or their dinners down, and by the time they all returned to their barracks, it only took seconds for them all to fall into a deep, exhausted, and dreamless sleep. But sleep would not provide them the respite they would have begged for, because only a few hours later, Ducard came roaring into the barracks, ordering everyone up out of their beds.

It took John only a few hours into his third day to realize that this would never become easy, but each time he felt near total exhaustion, he remembered his mission: Make those who killed his mother, pay,_dearly_.

* * *

><p>"Well… They're doing better than I expected… Eh?" Came the deep, but light voice of Christopher McGraw, as he stood in Sparta's main headquarters, and surveyed Delta Company's barracks.<p>

All eighty of the children were up and moving in minutes, and when the cameras shifted in order to follow them, he saw that it only took forty five seconds for them to line up in formation, and force their exhausted, young bodies to begin the run.

"I don't know… McGraw…" Said the female next to him, Doctor Evelyn Mossman; Mossman was staring at one individual in particular, one that had also caught McGraw's eye, but not for the same reasons.

"Mossman, they'll be _fine." _He assured her, running his right hand through his shoulder-length, very unkempt, dark brown hair. His left, cybernetic hand, was currently gripping a similarly cybernetic cane-like object, which was securely dug into the ground. "Look at them, yesterday they had less time to sleep, and yet _today_ they're already getting up and moving faster. This is only seeing to prove my theories." He said, a wide grin on his face.

"But look, half of them are already stumbling up. How long do you think they can keep this up?" She demanded; Mossman was the most adamant scientist against McGraw's program, but the only reason she wasn't publicly against it, was because her secrecy agreement was funneling tens of thousands of dollars into her bank accounts, per month.

"When their bodies are matured, when they get used to it." He said, "the Spartans went through the same -"

"Don't you bring up those _damned_ Spartans again!" Mossman threatened, "That was over two thousand years ago, when a man _your_ age would be considered a senior citizen!"

"Hey! I'm barley thirty!" Chris defended, "Besides, a man my age, back then, would have already seen ten wars and a million gallons of blood spilled." he countered, "at least now we only see a _few_ gallons spilled… A minute." He shrugged. "So let's go ahead and address why _you're _here. I know for a fact that you don't give a single _shit_ about the other six hundred eleven, not like I do -"

"You don't care about any of them!"

"Oh contraire." Said McGraw, looking at Mossman, who was a good six inches shorter than him. Behind his dark blue eyes were thoughts aplenty, and emotions overflowing. Confidence, creativeness, wisdom, intelligence, all wrestled behind a wall of millions of scientific, social, political, economic, and technologic ideas and theories, and it all washed together to form an air of supreme and utter self-confidence. "These kids need some kind of focal point. _Something_, besides themselves, to keep that Human element."

"And, what? You expect the man who can't become attached to things, to be that focal point?"

McGraw smiled in response.

"It won't work, you know. Your Spartans, I'll have you know, fucked _each other_ for pleasure, they only 'handled' their wives to produce offspring. Want to know what kind of messed up lifestyle makes men do _that?" _Mossman sounded slightly proud of her argument.

"A screwed up hierarchy." Said Chris, "and aside from that, these kids aren't _SPARTANS_, they're _SIGMAs._"

"The difference?!"

"Two different Canons?" McGraw smiled.

"What?!"

"Me."

"What can _you_ do?" She asked.

"A lot of stuff, apparently." He looked back at the vid-screens, "I can make a particle beam that literally annihilates anything it touches, at the speed of light. I can make an augmentation process which essentially turns those little kids you see right there, into indestructible _gods._ I can form an image of the scientific arm of the Human race that our numerous wars and our rebellion _haven't_ managed to shatter. And I can be a focal point for these children to maintain their Humanity."

"You're just one man." Mossman stated, bull-headedly, as she ran her left hand through her auburn hair, before she put it back in its tight bun.

"Look at what brought you here." McGraw pointed to the screen that was focusing on John S2-15, "he'll be just 'one man', and when this program is done with him, this 'one man' will be strong enough to take down an entire military base by himself." He paused, "or, hell, maybe even a _large_ military base, the Ones did it during the SCW_."_ He spread his arms, indicating all of the vid screens, "imagine what six hundred twelve of these _just one men,_ all working together, can do."

"I shudder to do just that…" Mossman muttered ominously, before she left the room with a huff.

* * *

><p><em>"Now entering: Hoom'Serol."<em> Said the deep, baritone voice of the air-plane's pilot, _"as we make preparations for our landing, please join us in remembrance of just how we got to where we stand today." _A pause, and the video screens on the backs of each of the seats all flickered to life. The passengers of the airplane knew the drill, and those that were interested hooked their ear-phones into the screens, while those that weren't simply switched the screens off and went back to their books, their phones, or other such devices and activities.

The video opened up with a picture of the cosmos, in all their glory. Lit bright by the billions upon billions of stars that enveloped them. A deep, baritone, and ever so slightly flanged voice began speaking.

_"In the vastness of Space, there lay billions of stars. Orbiting these billions stars, lay countless more planets, asteroids, and other such celestial bodies. Only two of these are known to have life. Saltor, our home, and Hoomanisire, the planet Cleansed by the Holy Light of the gifts left behind by our gods, for us to use. Saltor was the first planet, in all of the Universe, to breed life. From dust came us, the Saltorians. The Hoomanisire, our God, found us, living in caves, fighting everything - the angriest Snipe, the mightiest Blor, the stealthiest Shawk, and even Saltor itself - just to survive. The Hoomanisire's first gift came to us in the form of sentience, the ability to think beyond basic instinct."_ The picture shifted from the picture of the cosmos, to a video of the system's primary planet, taken from the homeworld's largest space-station, the 'Cosmos Instinct'.

The planet's seas were a clear blue, with a slight hint of green. The continents - of which there were nine - on the planet were all teeming with balances between the bright green of nature, and the golden light of society. The light gray clouds blanketed some sections of the planet, and the iconic image of the homeworld that was burned into every member of its child-species' mind, was formed.

The video cut to an image of a prehistoric Saltorian, he stood tall in his tattered, beige-gray clothes. Held high, in the triumphant lizard-being's four-clawed hand was a stone sword; the man's mouth was open wide in a victorious roar, his eyes gleamed with pride. In front of him was a horde of other, similarly armed Saltorians, and behind him were all manors of Saltor's ancient predatory animals, and Saltor's wrath itself was manifested in the form of an enormous, raging inferno of a forest fire.

_"With this tool, we fought back against the forces of Saltor, and using weapons - bone, rock, and wood - we began to win. Groups formed, and thus came the Hoomanisire's second gift, Society. But the Hoomanisire is nothing if not wise, we are an innately violent race, upon gifting us with Society, the Hoomanisire gifted us with Battle, War, and Conquest, all at once. Millennia passed, as we fought the elements and ourselves, before Hoomanisire himself came to save his children from the brink of annihilation."_

The prehistoric Saltorian picture was now replaced by a new, ancient painting. Standing in the center of an enormous ring of bowing, robed Saltorians, and bathed in a holy silver light, were the Gods of the Saltorians, the Hoomanisire. Their flawless, pale white skin contrasted heavily with the dark emerald scales of their creations, their dark brown hair and kind, round eyes stood in stark opposition to the hairless heads of the Saltorians, and the diamond eyes and snake-like slits of their irises. The very presence of the Holy One in the middle of the ring of worshiping Saltorians seemed to scream with holiness.

_"The Hoomanisirian age, the days in which we lived alongside the Hoomanisire, as children would live alongside their parents. Scriptures, prophets, societies, arts, legends, the Hoomanisirian age gave us everything. The Hoomanisire himself gave us everything, but his first gifts were the ones we simply couldn't resist, we still cannot."_

The video cut to black for several seconds, before a new image was shown. This one had the harsh reds and oranges of War, the Saltorians - now clad in ancient armors, and armed with steel weaponry - were clashing on the battlefields. Corpses were strewn about the picture, with bloody gashes torn into them and horribly efficient ancient weaponry sticking straight out of them.

_"We fought each other still, slaughtering ourselves with the weapons and gifts the Hoomanisire gave us, in the veil assumption that we would gain his favor. How wrong we were."_

Another fade to black, before another ghastly image appeared. This one of enormous fire-lances, and horrible weapons being unleashed upon the planet. Saltorians were running in fear of the wrath of the Hoomanisire, their gods, as their planet, their homes, and their families were all torn apart, the old gifts and the most ancient of temples being burnt to cinders in the wake of the Hoomanisirian Fire.

_"The Hoomanisire's next gift would be the Great Cleansing, and the Departure. The Hoomanisirian age ended with the departure of Hoomanisire himself. He cleansed Saltor of all of its sins, showing us that War, Battle, Death and Destruction would only serve to further lose his favor. The Dark Age came after the Hoomanisirian age, when the skies were filled, and the sun itself was blotted out by the unclaimed souls of those cleansed by Hoomanisire before he left._

_"Scared, helpless, the children of the Hoomanisire did all they could to show Hoomanisire that they were worthy of his return. But soon, differing ideals clashed, and very soon, our world was enveloped in a series of never-ending wars. One empire would rise, only to be taken out by another, using the steel-forging gifts and arrow-firing techniques of the Hoomanisire."_

More pictures depicting wars, death, famine, disease and pestilence. They seemed not to stop, and all of them screamed of hopelessness and despair. But then the video cut to a modern-day footage of a Saltorian Battlevector, standing proud in his fatigues, his energy-lance held tightly, professionally, and reverently in his arms. The man's mere image reeked of honor, experience, and loyalty. The look in his golden eyes screamed of battle experience, and dedication to world peace. His uniform, the curvy-leaf like lines of blending green, tan, and dark green colors screamed of power, and the vest and armor underneath it roared of professionalism.

_"The Hoomanisire felt that no one was worthy of his blessing, but then he found the BattleVectors, dutifully worshiping the Hoomanisire's memory in the Temple of the Hoomanisire, on the continent Innsua, named after the holy heaven Hoomanisire went back to after departing us. The Hoomanisire saw the BattleVectors united under one simple desire, to regain the favor of our Gods. And regain we did, in the form of the Hoomanisire's next gift: Ships, Cannons, Holy Armor, and Sea-Travelers."_

Back to the ancient pictures, as ancient BattleVectors, garbed in steel armor instead of energy and bullet resistant clothing, and armed with blades and bows, stormed the beaches and the continents of Saltor, looking to oust the evil, war-seeking empires of times ancient past.

_"Using these gifts, and studying them to learn how we can improve upon them - as the Hoomanisire taught us - the BattleVectors sailed forth to all the Saltorian Continents, to begin the Age of Irony. We fought each other - an act that the Hoomanisire had deemed unfavorable - to gain the favor of the Hoomanisire. Centuries passed, millennia, all consumed by war, but the BattleVectors were successful. After wars few thought would end, the BattleVectors united Saltor under the Saltorian Empire's flag."_

More pictures of BattleVectors committing war came. Superimposed beneath these images was the time-honored image of the Saltorian BattleVectors' symbol, the symbol of the most powerful and respected aerial animal on Saltor itself, the Flizs. The Flizs had strength enough to bite straight through the skin of any Snipe, and could seriously injure a Saltorian with its talons, yet it only ever sought conflict when hunting, or when defending itself.

_"For millennia after, Wars would continue, but the BattleVectors - utilizing the gifts the Hoomanisire would bestow upon them with each passing generation - would end the wars before they could envelop us as the Irony Wars had. Then, the Hoomanisire - seeing how devoted to gaining his favor, we were - bestowed upon us his next gift: Technology. __The very gift that came from the depths of the Temple of the Hoomanisire._

_"Guns, gunpowder, electricity, fire, cars, gasoline, so many inventions and creations, all fueled by the Hoomanisire's gift of Technology. Tens of millennia passed, as we continued to advance ourselves. Airplanes, energy lances, missiles, they all came to us with time, but culminated in the most recent gifts of the Hoomanisire: Space."_

There was a new image of the Void, now with Saltorians looking to it from their home planet.

_"The Hoomanisire taught us, through Technologies such as the airplane, that Saltor's air _itself_ was now ours. Planes could take us to the outermost reaches of Saltor's atmosphere, and the forbidden fruit of Space tempted us, and Hoomanisire rewarded us by allowing to taste the fruit. Space Shuttles, Rocket ships, Satellites, they all allowed us to travel to our Moon, Helesia, and then to the fourth planet from our Sun; the planet named after our gods, Planet Hoomanisire. We came, we saw, and we wanted_ it." The image was now of Hoomanisire, its atmosphere and its surface once being an ugly red, but then shifting into beautiful blues and greens, slowly being blessed with the golds of technology and society._ "But, we expected that the planet would shelter us as Saltor had, for so long. We were wrong, upon removing our protective shells, our people withered and died under the airless skies of Hoomanisire. That culminated in his second most recent gift, the Great Cleansers. We, as the Hoomanisire had taught us, took what was ours, and shaped it into something we could use. We cleansed the planet, and made it into our own."_

The video faded to black, and then a new picture of battle appeared. This one depicted lines of infantry, savagely rushing the defenders of the Cities, their guns, their cannons, and their vehicles all brutally destroying the sword-wielding defenders, who had yet to be blessed by the gift of gunpowder.

_"But a single planet could not stop our single most innate desire: To War. __The Hoomanisirian Colonial Rebellion was costly, but not as costly as Hoomanisire's second Great Punishment: The Dreg War."_

Images of horrible insect-like aliens besieging the Saltorian Empire's worlds filled the screen. Burning cities, slaughtering men women and children, and even the animals of Saltor, all appeared and cut away quickly, like the beating of a heart, to increase the tension of the video. The multiple-eyed, multicolored insectoid Dregs were painted in evil lights, with their horrid reds and dark oranges clouding out the bright blues and peaceful greens of the Saltorian species.

_"Two thousand years ago, the Dregs found us on Saltor, they found us on Hoomanisire, and they showed us what would happen to those who lost the favor of the Gods. For centuries, the Dregs fought us, testing our conviction. We fought back, using everything the Hoomanisire had taught us; missiles, guns, energy-lances, cannons, ships, vehicles, planes, rocket ships, they were all used to fight against the Dregs, but weren't enough. We fought with everything, but still we lost more than we won. The Hoomanisire, though, he saw our resolve, felt our conviction, and he answered with his last, most recent gift: Fission."_

A new image, as iconic as Saltor itself, exploded onto the display. An enormous, city-enveloping cloud in the shape of a fiery mushroom.

_"We split the atom, we found the Wrath of the Hoomanisire. We used it, everywhere the Dregs came, we burned them with the Hoomanisire's Wrath given physical shape: The Nuclear Bomb. Mere decades passed, as we made hundreds, thousands of bombs, and after we burned them off of Saltor, we moved to Hoomanisire. It took us centuries, but we too burned the Dregs from Saltor, leaving only a single queen with which we keep now, as a reminder of our strength when_ united." Now the images were of the Saltorians bombing the Dregs and winning against them. Videos even, of atomic detonations and nuclear destruction, millions of Dregs falling, be it to Saltorian Guns of Atomic Weaponry._ "After spending a century, cleansing our planets from the Dreg War, we sank back into our old roots, with wars upon ourselves raging - though now more violent than ever, with the Nuclear Bombs entering play. But now, the BattleVectors had enough."_

Now, the images and videos were of modern BattleVectors, forcibly annexing rebellious, war-seeking states and cities under their flag. The honorable, albeit brutal view of the warriors were painted much larger than the civilians they were saving from the tyrannical governments.

_"They refused to see what the Hoomanisire would deliver us when next we lost his favor, so the second Irony War began, as they conquered everything, and united us all under the Praetorian of the BattleVectors. For decades now, two thousand two hundred and nine years after the beginning of the Age of Technology, the BattleVectors have been maintaining peace, through means of superior firepower. The BattleVectors are the only ones with access to the Nuclear Arsenal, they alone can cleanse Saltor and Hoomanisire entirely, and begin again, should they see fit."_

Finally, and gradually, the images and videos became peaceful things, like beaches, airplanes, soldiers reuniting with their families, and children playing and laughing.

_"The Hoomanisire has been quiet, ever since the Second Irony War ended, mere years ago. The Saltorians, the children of the Hoomanisire, eagerly await his next gift... Or his next punishment."_

Selaan Sal'Fiil sighed, as the video was cut off as the plane landed. It was one of the most recent editions of 'A Brief History of the Saltorians', a documentary detailing the history of the Saltorian Race. He recognized it because it was commonly used as interplanetary entertainment, and apparently as airline entertainment on Hoomanisire. Selaan could hear the engines of the airplane whine down, as the plane descended back to the Hoomanisirian ground. He brought a clawed hand, and rubbed his scales with it, he suffered from great jet-lag, and wanted nothing more than to exit the offending machine and get to where he was needed. His hand did little help, as it rubbed along his elongated, reptilian face, but it did enough that he could notice.

_Gods..._ Thought Selaan, _If only my mates were here with me._

He could remember the looks on his eight mates' faces, when he said he had been called away to Hoomanisire for an emergency discovery. They had demanded what would call away a _scientist_ for such a long journey, as the simple trip from Saltor to Hoomanisire took upwards of four months, and another four coming back. But alas, he _had_ to brave the Journey, Praetorian Heif Hoom'Sine had urged he go, investigate the claims. Selaan could understand why he had to go, no one claimed they found gifts from the Hoomanisire unless they were legitimate... Or if they were touched in the head, but Hoomanisirian BattleVectors had investigated the claims themselves, and had advised they bring a Great Studier to help them, thus, Selaan getting a two-way ticket to Hoomanisire.

Selaan felt the plane touch ground, and several minutes after it stopped moving, he was allowed out of the plane, and to enter the airport. Hoomanisirian airports were known to be _very_ strict on security, with the wars going on on Saltor, very few of the Hoomanisirian BattleVectors wanted it to spill onto Hoomanisire, so they used the latest in security technology to make sure the Saltorians entering and exiting planes were legitimate, and not seditious rebels, or war-instigators. It took Selaan upwards of a Saltor Hour to make it through the airport, and upon exiting - his luggage slung over his eight-foot tall frame - he saw a sign that would frighten _any_ wrongdoer, and would fill with the greatest sense of pride, any soldier or righteous civilian.

Three BattleVectors, in their signature woodland combat-camouflage uniforms, with vests showing proudly over their hidden armor plating, stood to the left of the main exit. Two had energy lances in hand, the club-like weapons were as elegant as they looked brutal. Their energy cells were inserted at the back end of the rifle, and at full charge, it gave them six hundred five-second burst shots of laser fire. The five second fire limit was so the weapon wouldn't overheat and disintegrate on the soldier. Only BattleVectors could wield the mighty weapons, and thus, their mere presence screamed of legitimacy to Selaan. The third BattleVector, in the middle of the pack, had a sign in his hand, with Selaan's name written upon it.

"I have found you!" Selaan called, his right hand raised, as he strode over to the BattleVectors. He smoothed out his beige shirt, and patted a wrinkle out of his dark blue pants, one _had_ to look presentable in front of BattleVectors, they deserved the best, for everything they went through, to keep the Cities safe from War.

"And I, you." Said the BattleVector in the center, he lowered his sign. "Selaan Sal'Fiil?"

"Yes, Sir." Said Selaan, with a slight bow of his scaly head.

The BattleVector's eyes were hidden behind the visor of his helmet, but Selaan guessed they were looking into his own dark brown eyes, searching for any sign of deceit or ill-will. A few seconds of silence passed before the BattleVector smiled broadly, revealing his rows of sharp, meat-shredding teeth.

"Welcome to Hoomanisire, Studier Fiil!" The man shouted gleefully, no doubt thankful that he didn't have to take Selaan's life. "Come, we have a great deal to speak of." He said, motioning for Selaan to follow him to their military transport vehicle.

The trip from the airport to the excavation site took hours. Selaan and the Battlevectors spoke of many things, primarily the warfronts on Saltor, and the goings-on on the planet. The News got many things right, but _nothing_ beat personal experience. Selaan explained to the best of his ability, after all, he lived on Innsua, and therefor knew little of the actual battles, aside from what everyone else knew: The BattleVectors were an unstoppable force, against the immovable object that was the Saltorian instinct for War. Eventually the six-wheeled vehicle settled down, and Selaan was allowed some peace to watch the sky of Hoomanisire pass them by.

Unlike Saltor, which had a slight gray tinge to its sky, that Studiers like Selaan had deduced was due to an ancient asteroid impact, which left such dust in the atmosphere that, even now, so many thousands of years later, still affected the sky, Hoomanisire's sky was a bright, bright blue. It was such a pure blue that the white of the solar system's sun only seemed to make it even more beautiful. The passing forests, towns, villages and cities only served to continue to build up the image of the 'Beautiful Colony-world', that Hoomanisire's settlers had spent centuries building, post-Dreg War. The greens and browns mixed perfectly with the beautiful blue of the sky, and the whites of the clouds.

Finally, the journey ended, and Selaan got his first true opportunity to stretch his legs, which felt sorely under used, after so long sitting and waiting. What greeted Selaan's eyes was a sight worth seeing, he saw an enormous dig site, which extended deep into an enormous Sal-made canyon. There were workers lining the inclines, which led up and down the canyon, but at its deepest point, Selaan saw something truly wonderful, truly _beautiful,_ even. He saw steel.

But this wasn't the steel Saltorians used to make their machinery, and their weapons and other such devices. This was Hoomanisirian Steel, the very same metals that the Temple of the Hoomanisire was made from. Their distinctive blue-gray sheen was what convinced Selaan that this was _no_ hoax. It was the real thing, and by Gods - _literally! - _it would be the greatest technological discovery since Fossil Fuels.

"Is that... Truly?" Asked Selaan, in a state of pure awe.

"It is." Said the BattleVector, "and we've just -" his voice coincided with a large, loud, bright flash of thermite "- gained entrance." A second later, and a mass of bodies was running for the newly made entrance. BattleVectors and Colonial Marines quickly surged forth, and pushed the excavators back, forcing them to get back to their jobs.

"And you want me to be the first to enter the holy grounds?" Selaan asked, disbelievingly.

The BattleVector nodded, his uniform seeming to glow from the gratitude Selaan felt for it and its wearer. "Shall we enter now? Or would you like to set your things -"

_"Now!"_ Selaan could _still_ remember the first time he set foot in the Temple of the Hoomanisire, the tingling feeling in his scales, the warm feeling in his blood, and the warmth that had radiated into his ceremonial robes. "Gods, _now! Please!"_

The BattleVector smiled warmly, "follow me, Studier." He bade calmly, before he began his trek down the circling inclines.

The trip down to the center of the canyon had stretched out to infinity, for the bristling Studier. He could not comprehend that he was going to be the first Saltorian to step foot upon a _new_ Temple of the Hoomanisire! It was incomprehensible, it was unbelievable! And yet, here he was, stepping onto the ladder and lowering himself into the temple.

Upon setting down on the dark, Hoomanisirian Steel ground, Selaan looked around. He clicked on his flashlight, and was greeted by the sole object in the room that cemented everything he'd thought in the last hour, he _was_ in a new Temple for the Hoomanisire, and it _was_ the greatest discovery for their religion, since the temple upon Saltor.

It was an enormous, disk-shaped object, stretching dozens of meters across the floor. There were all sorts of screens, terminals, and objects surrounding its dusty, silver surface, but Selaan could not help but let his mind wander, wondering if it was a transporter, or perhaps a communicator. There was an enormous object, like a chandelier, looming above it, only a few dozen meters from the thermite-carved hole they had dug. It had several dozen spire-like objects, all pointed at one spot: The disk. Selaan could not help but wonder if it was some sort of weapon, but the terminals and benches surrounding them made him second guess himself.

_"Studier Fiil! Please move from the ladder!"_ Came the shout from the BattleVector, Selaan apologized and did just that.

_I truly am here..._ Thought Selaan, as he moved about to explore the room, _A second temple of the Hoomanisire._ His gaze, his face, and even his mind, were all filled with a sense of pure awe.

* * *

><p><em>AN:_

_How was _that? _Eh?  
>Now, for those of you wondering how I'll be releasing this, my Beta and I spoke on this for a very long time. Eventually we came to the conclusion that the content would benefit from having a bi-weekly release schedule.<br>**In layman's terms, I'll be releasing one chapter every other week.  
><strong>The next chapter can be expected (Drumroll): Sunday, February 9th._

_Finally, the more observant of you will very soon notice the ''REVISED' tags popping up on the TFW Chapters.  
>I did a binge-reading quest the other day and... Well, I thought I could do better.<br>So I'm running through the TFW Chapters and am revising them, putting a spit-shine on the existing content, updating it to fit my Canon, Grammar/Spelling/English mistakes, and fixing the continuity errors that popped up.  
>These changes are <strong>not<strong> required to continue reading TSW, this is primarily for new reader attracted to TFW by this story, and vice-versa._

_'Till then, folks, if you're looking for updates, check out my profile! I'm almost always dropping updates as to what's going on when, where, and how it relates to my stories.  
>And if you liked the chapter, leave a review! I actually do read every single one (sometimes more than once) and I try to respond to every one I find.<em>

_Thanks for reading, folks!_

_-PFB_


	2. Chapter 1

_A/N: _

_Yeah, it's a bit early, but those who follow my profile know that I've been sick the past few days and seriously doubted my ability to get the update out and ready for a Sunday release.  
>So I decided to release it a day early... I doubted anyone would mind. <strong><br>**_

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><p>Chapter 1:<p>

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><p><em>"Humans were a bad enemy to fight - which also made them a good enemy, for orks made little distinction between the two concepts. No matter how many humans were killed, there were always more to take their place, shiploads of them brimming with vengeance. Humans were like a weed, like a disease, almost impossible to cleanse from a world. For a greenskin that made them something more than an enemy, for a fight against a favored enemy was a joyous thing. Orks loved going to war with humans, because defeating the humans meant something."<em>

_— Warhammer 40000_

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><p>May 6th, 2210<p>

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><p>He could see it, just barely, through the deep. The outlines of his vision were so blurry, they gave him no detail whatsoever, but the centers of his vision, the places he focused upon, he could discern clearly enough. He could see the face of a woman, dark red hair with brown undertones, she had dark green eyes, much like his own. She looked old, but not at all elderly, like the facets of age were only just beginning to show upon her otherwise youthful face.<p>

The woman smiled, the smile warmed his heart, made the edges of his vision become ever so slightly clearer.

She spoke to him, she said "John…" Before she paused, and looked behind her, computers and terminals began flashing red. "John Sh…" Always, _always_ his true name was hidden from him, never could he hear what he had been known as before he became one of 'them'. "John Sh… I love -" The terminals behind her exploded, he saw her become frightened, as veiled men draped in shadow stormed the ship. "I love -" Alarms began blaring as she was grabbed viciously, she tried desperately to get back to him, to speak to him, to finish her declaration. "I love y-" A gun was put to her head as the alarms increased in pitch and tone, and before she could speak again, her brains made a quick and forceful exit from her head. The Mass Accelerated bullet tore through her skull and her brain.

The Woman's eyes rolled to the back of her head as a light seemed to pour from the exit wound. The light was bright, pure white, and piercing, He found that he couldn't at all look at it without an all-consuming pain drilling into his skull.

_"JOHN!"_ He heard a voice shout, this voice was not at all like the warm, friendly voice the Woman spoke with. This one was deep, harsh, and sounding not at all unlike -" _JOHN S2-15, GET UP RIGHT NOW!"_ And not an instant later, he felt the world shake and the ground give out beneath him.

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><p>The very next thing that John Sigma Two, Fifteen, felt was the sensation of a cold concrete floor gleefully rushing up to meet his face. John had already been here for a year, but still something kept him from reacting as automatically as his instructors would like, and therefore when he thrust forward both of his arms to break his fall, all he succeeded in doing was bracing his chest, his head still snapped forward and slammed against the ground, throbbing as it did so.<p>

"Two Fifteen, what in God's name made you think you could sleep past the base-wide alarm?!" Demanded the harsh, deep, and American Southern-accented voice of his instructor, a SIGMA One, a first generation, _volunteer_ super soldier for the Alliance Armed Forces.

SIGMAs were, simply put, the best in the Alliance's not inconsiderably sized and talented military had to offer. SIGMA Ones, or 'S1's' as they came to call themselves now, were the first generation of the program. Created by the late Jason McGraw, father of Christopher McGraw, and the Alliance's first Artificial Intelligence, 'Nikola', the SIGMAs were trained in ways that _did_ in fact break most men. This training, however, served only to make them unbeatable, even before their bodies were bio-mechanically augmented by the most advanced medical and surgical technology the Human, and now, Quarian, race had to offer.

The SIGMA Ones had at least two noteworthy, and almost universally classified, operations in each and every war the Alliance had participated. They'd been instrumental in bogging down the Turians on Palaven, during the Second Contact War. They'd slaughtered thousands during the Mercenary Wars, the most legendary of their numbers had even gone into a Space Station, and single-handedly cleared it of each and every of the few hundred mercenaries, with only a minor injury to show for the effort. Their most extensive deployments continue to be in Human Rebellions, where regiments up to 300 strong had taken to clearing out entire city-states in days. Despite that, though, the Rebels continued to pop up, and so they continued to stop them.

SIGMAs were lauded as unbeatable soldiers, indestructible warriors, and undefeatable Humans of Mass Destruction. They'd killed far more than they had been killed, though with each war they undertook, far fewer of their number were given 'classified assignments' with 'undeterminable completion times'. But despite the accolades, they were still Humans, and they'd made mistakes, as evidenced by the thousands of SIGMA casualties by the hands of the Turians during the Second Contact War, the hundreds lost during the Mercenary Wars, and the dozens lost during the Rebellion, which was, despite the Alliance Armed Forces' best efforts, still ongoing. This was why the SIGMA Twos, or 'S2's' were created.

Christopher McGraw, the 'Mind of Humanity', had come up with the concept of the Twos when he'd looked at ancient Earth history, and had recognized a pattern. Career military men who started early in their lives, tended to be more effective than those who took the military as a job, and nothing more. This was most evidenced by the Spartans of ancient Greece, who were used as McGraw's prime example. They were taken from toddlerhood, and were trained in war until they turned thirty, before they were forced to continue think and act of nothing but war, death, battle, and destruction, until they either died, or their bodies simply couldn't fight anymore.

So McGraw spent months, _years_ even, convincing the Alliance Parliament of the fact that the Twos would be a worthy investment, and when they'd finally conceded, and allowed him 612 recruits to begin with, he'd begun in earnest. The training they undertook day, after day, after day was brutal, and hellish, and many wondered what they were doing here, but the trainers and drill instructors were doing amazing jobs of warping the children's minds towards a pro-Human, pro-Military point of view. Already, some of John's only friends were starting to feel the sort of 'blind pride', as John had taken to calling it, that the instructing SIGMA Ones were conditioning them to feel.

And despite it all, John knew as he got to his feet and snapped to attention, despite the fact that they all had _no_ parents, and no family aside from themselves, Christopher McGraw, the man that had sentenced them to this hell, was their only true father figure. McGraw was the one thing that seemed to almost force the kids to keep their Humanity and their almost innocent spirits. He had always, routinely, made it a point to visit each and every one of the SIGMA II Companies, at least once, every other month. Those days had to be the most exciting in John's memories, because they not only gave him a connection to the outside world, but they made him feel different, as if he _wasn't_ just a soldier. Despite knowledge to the contrary, John felt like McGraw truly _loved_ the Twos.

But of course, no one would vocalize those sentiments, especially not John, as he snapped to attention and spoke clearly and loudly. "I'm sorry _sir!"_ He shouted, "I was… I had a hard time falling asleep, _sir!"_

"Oh, I'm sorry, am I not putting you to bed early enough?" Demanded John's instructor in a tone that reeked of faux-concern, as he kneeled down and got to eye level with John. John knew better than to respond, and it took his instructor only a moment's pause to continue, "well _tough!"_ He shouted, almost exactly quoting what John had expected him to say, "you're a soldier, kid! You've been a soldier for a year now, it's about damn time you start _acting like it!"_

John waited, he knew what was coming. His instructor got back to his full seven and a half foot height and walked out to the middle of the barracks, and John joined the line of child-soldiers as the adult continued speaking. "Now, because of the sleeping beauty's few extra moments of blissful rest, we're all going to be working harder than yesterday. Breakfast will come _after_ the quarter mile! And if you can't do your reps afterwards, you can _forget_ about your lunches!" He shouted in such an authoritative tone that the SIGMA Kids knew he'd earned it, "now get dressed! You've thirty seconds before we _make_ you move!"

And with that, the eighty SIGMA Kids that made up Delta Company scrambled to make their beds and get dressed, before what had happened almost routinely during their first few weeks would happen again. If they ever were late in reporting outside for their morning fitness runs, even by a single minute, four entire squads - of three men each - of SIGMA One Operatives would storm the building to force them out; obviously they would be using non-lethal paralyzing paint ammunition and flash-bang grenades, but the fact that they were attacking made the point clear enough. Wasting time would get people killed, and SIGMAs _don't_ get killed, those were among the plethora of words that their instructor had given them the first time they were late, and the first time they all got paralyzed by the paint-wielding super soldiers.

John didn't waste time, but even as he lined up outside, he couldn't get his mind off of the events in his dream. He still remembered why Doctor Evelyn 'Mossy' Mossman had recruited him, enemies of the Alliance - whatever and whoever that meant - had killed his mother, who he thought was the woman in his dream. He couldn't believe that it only took a year of the military's brutal training to hammer the image of his mother out of his head, but he had to admit that the training had helped immensely in getting over his mother's passing. Besides, if he really wanted to think of it that way, he had McGraw and Mossy as his parental figures. Mossman checked in on him regularly, to see his progress, and McGraw checked in on them _all_ bi-monthly, though his visits tended to hold no purpose other than to entertain the SIGMA Kids.

John pushed all of these thoughts from his mind though, as his instructor called for the march, and the eighty child-soldiers began the quarter mile jog.

* * *

><p>Hundreds of light years away from the classified child-training facilities on the classified super-soldier training planet, an entirely different day was underway, for an entirely different young man.<p>

Jorell'Sahn nar Mindoir, the son of the former admiral Talo'Zorn, and the Migrant Fleet Marine turned Alliance Marine Herinan'Sahn vas Midway, was playing gleefully in a small park a few blocks from his home. Jorell, only being ten Human years old, was unaware of this, but in the near decade that the Quarians had been introduced and merged to Human society, the Quarian standard of living and general treatment had improved at least threefold.

Many Humans did, in fact, blame the Quarians for the state the Alliance had been 'forced to', meaning its sovereignty from the Citadel Council by virtue of the Second Contact War. Those Humans tended to be the 'rebels' of which his mother feared, and his father wouldn't admit to fearing, but they still were numerous enough to be a thorn in the Quarian Race's redevelopment. It was true that the vast majority of Humans respected the Quarians, if not for their ingenuity and the fact that they'd helped advance Human society and technology considerably, but for inadvertently showing them that their fears of the unknown were all but unfounded. Before First Contact, the Humans had been completely and utterly afraid of aliens, of any kind. This fear had significantly slowed down their colonization rates, and immensely racked up their military development, which proved invaluable during the Second Contact War, where the Humans realized that, somehow, the aliens whom they thought would hold all the power, were not as formidable as they had first thought_._ _The Humans_ were the ones to be afraid of, not the aliens, and this was why the Alliance was, at least generally, left alone, and the Quarians were allowed, after centuries, to settle down and rebuild, and become the once proud species they had been, so long ago.

But Jorell knew not, any of that. All he knew was that he moved regularly, that it was unfair that he had to be stuck inside of a bubble when his older friends got to get QIS and wear Human clothes over their mask-less enviro-suits, and that every now and again he had to be herded in beneath the house, and that the ground and sky would shake with the fury of those not at all satisfied with the adventurous life of travel and excitement that life could give them. All Jorell knew was that he was happy, and the tales his mother told him of discrimination could _never_ happen to him by Human actions, the Humans were too cool, to nice, and too accepting to say such unkind things.

Jorell paused what he was doing as he could feel his bubble vibrate. This was strange, as Quarian Kid Bubbles, simply put, _didn't_ vibrate. It took Jorell a few moments to realize that it was the winds howling and shrieking that was making his bubble vibrate, he looked up to the sky and saw an Alliance Frigate descending from the sky. He could see, just barely, the enormous letters printed upon its side, which spelled out '_SSV Midway'._ He heard his mother talking about the Midway, it was the ship his father served on. It descending from the sky could only mean that it was going in for a landing at the landing-stations only a few miles from the playground.

Jorell smiled widely as he looked at the might Alliance war machine. He himself only had a limited knowledge of ships - he was only ten, after all - but he knew that the Alliance Frigates were the most numerous in the navy. They were the lightest armored, but they also were more sleekly designed, as opposed to the blocky, bulky, and angular designs of the higher classes of warships. Unlike the 'Ship Grunts', the Destroyers, Frigates tended to keep their distance in naval engagements, they stayed with the Dreadnoughts and Carriers, to protect them. The saying went, 'Frigates are snipers, Destroyers are Shotgunners, Dreadnoughts are missile launchers, carriers are cavalry, and Flagships are the Commanders.', that was how Jorell remembered them all.

Jorell knew that this particular frigate, the _Midway,_ was actually a Heavy Frigate, which had been designed and authorized for use of outer colonial defense from the Rebels. There were only a hundred fifty Heavy Frigates in the Navy, and they weren't _as_ fast as the sleeker, smaller, and less weighted light frigates, but they still had a lot of fire power within them. Their main cannons, Mk. IV Rail Guns, could get their payloads moving up to thirty nine thousand meters per second, three thousand meters more than the regular, Light Frigates, and the Carriers. They had enough strength to pierce the hull of a light frigate with one shot, two if it was a glancing blow, and a Heavy Frigate in three. They had all manner of missiles and defense/offense turrets as well, but the fact remained that no Frigate was armed enough to take on any higher class warship alone, not even Heavy Frigates. That was why Frigates tended to rely heavily upon numbers, and fought much like Snipers, they would keep their distance and destroy their enemies from afar, or destroy enemy fighters that could damage Dreadnoughts, Carriers, or - Ancestors forbid - Flagships. The Frigates were unique in the fact that they could play many roles, thanks to their design, and it was such that they hadn't been phased out, as some political leaders had attempted to do, citing that Destroyers could accomplish just as much as - if not, _more_ than_ -_ the Frigates. Those political leaders had to, as the Human phrase went, 'put a sock in it', when a Colonial Defense Fleet - comprising primarily of Frigates, with only a single Carrier - acting as the de-facto flagship - as backup - successfully defended a colony from assault, during the Mercenary Wars.

Of course, the young Quarian child knew very little of this, all he truly knew and understood was that his father was home, and right on cue, he heard the Quarian Accented voice of his mother call out to him.

Jorell rolled around and happily rolled towards his mother, who'd bent down and was smiling widely behind her mask, her arms wide, waiting to embrace her child. Her suit was black and light blue, as was her mask. Unlike many Quarians, who fully embraced the Alliance's nano-mechanical immunodeficiency solution, 'QIS 612', by openly walking without their mask on Human worlds, Talo'Zorn only allowed those with whom she lived with, namely her mate, her mother, and her son, to see her face. This was common enough that few ever gave her odd looks about her choice, and as such her child didn't mind at all that he couldn't see his mother's face as she smiled gleefully upon embracing her child.

_"Father's _home!" She said gleefully, her soft voice filling her child's heart with a warm feeling. "We'll have the entire weekend to spend with him!" She smiled.

"I want to see the space ship!" Jorell gleefully declared, it wasn't through lack of trying that he didn't know much about spaceships and the like, he was utterly fascinated by them, it was the simple fact that his young Quarian mind didn't retain the information too long. It wasn't as if his father minded at all, giving the young one a tour of the public areas on the ship, it warmed mother and father's hearts alike to see the wide-eyed expression of pure awe on the child's face.

The former admiral laughed warmly, "I am certain father would love to show you the ship, young one." She said, setting the child down, "come, let us see him!" She said, surreptitiously making sure that the GPS locator on the bubble was synched up with her Omni-tool, the child sure loved to wander and explore.

* * *

><p>Lethargy, burning lungs, dehydration, and even a little blood from his lip, were what awaited John S2-15, when he arrived in the mess hall after the tiring <em>half mile<em> run. His instructor had 'surprised' Delta Company with an extra quarter of a mile, and he'd promised them that if they couldn't run it, after a year of the quarter mile, he wouldn't only be disappointed, but he'd know that they would need a _lot more_ training, and that could possibly mean a lot less sleep.

John sat down at his table, his legs felt like jelly, his chest felt like fire, and his stomach felt so queasy and weak that he didn't think he'd be able to keep down the horrible food he'd been served for breakfast. It was a well known fact that military food was horrible, his mother had told him that once, but he'd never truly believed it until he'd been served _real_ green eggs, which he'd steadfastly refused to eat until that had all he'd been given one day for breakfast, after a particularly grueling pre-morning PT session. After realizing that they didn't at all taste differently from what he remembered eggs tasting like, he ate them like any other morsel he got: Quickly and with little time to savor the horrid taste.

Two of John's closest friends in Delta Company sat next to him after a few moments. It was true that after the first few months, everyone in Delta Company had grown close enough to call each other anything from 'friend' to 'brother', if only because of their united stand to simply _survive_ their soon-to-be lifelong military careers, but John S2-15, George S2-66, and Justin S2-99 were all closer to each other, than to many of the others. Whenever they had free time, which wasn't that often, they could be found hanging out with each other.

"Well… you look particularly exhausted, mate." Said George, his English accent still as thick as the day he'd been brought in, much to the chagrin of their instructor, who was still trying to almost literally beat it out of him. "What'd you dream of?" He asked, his tan white face showed a great deal of concern for his friend.

John didn't like talking about anything from his life before 'Hell Camp', and he guessed his dream was about his mom, even though he couldn't remember much. He knew he couldn't really lie to his friends, though, they were all he had, and if he'd learned anything besides how to fire a pistol with either hand, and how to kill any sentient being with anything he could get his hands on, it was that his friends would be all he had _everywhere,_ on the base, on the battlefield, and in his life. To lie to them in any way could destroy that which he'd worked so hard to build and maintain.

So he spoke simply, "my mom."

"Oh… Damn." Said a dumbfounded Justin, with a momentary pause before his profane utterance.

"You're _still_ having those dreams, mate?" George inquired.

John nodded, solemnly, "I'm having a harder and harder time of remembering her… Though." He said, feeling a single tear come to his sore eye, "I miss my old life." He lamented, "but as time goes on… It's getting harder and harder to remember it. Ducard is doing a good job at forcing us to remember the important things, I guess." The child-soldier shrugged.

The table was silent for a few moments as John's words sunk in.

"I can't really say there's much I miss." Said Justin, in a detached tone, "My orphanage sucked, my foster dad smelled, and my foster mom was never there. Anything was better than _that…_" He said, a slightly loathing hint in his tone.

"Same here… Though, I was just _found."_ George remembered, "Mister Jemison caught me picking his pocket, and then he caught my right hook." He chuckled fondly, it was the one and only time he'd ever decked a SIGMA recruiter, and he knew he'd never forget it. "Took 'em two days to find me, clean me up, and ship me 'ere." He shrugged, "not much to miss, the asshole of a foster-dad and his football obsession, or the honor and integrity of the military. Easy choice." The three chuckled.

None of these words did anything to make the aching child-soldier feel any better, but the effort was what he appreciated, and he put on a smile to show them that he did, in fact, appreciate it. The three made idle conversation as they ate, before training resumed with their promised pushup repetitions, none of them were able to keep their breakfasts down.

Hours would pass by as this day would drag on like the others before it, they would finish eating, they would do exorbitant amounts of pushups, and they would finish their run. The first few hours of the afternoon were spent training with marksmanship, Ducard told them that they wouldn't even _think_ about moving on to automatic weapons, until _every_ SIGMA II, not just those in Delta Company, could get killshots at distances of over fifty five meters, with sidearms. John, George, and Justin had progressed greatly with pistols the last year, they could each hit kill shots at the required distances, and the latter two could get up to sixty meters. John had proven up to seventy five, the best in the company, which everyone knew Ducard was boasting about to the other Commanders, the only one in the other companies that could get close to John's distance was a Beta Company soldier, who could hit seventy meters.

After marksmanship, they would be taught scholastic courses by a multitude of AI's. AI 'Thomas Jefferson', named after one of the founding fathers for the Earth-Nation, the United States, handled history, both Human and Human Military. AI 'John Nash', named after a world-renown 20th and 21st century mathematician, handled their mathematics, John was rather fond of Math Class, he liked the numbers, they had a definite 'yes' or a definite 'no', no in-between, like History or English, both of which was handled by AI 'Olga Harris', a World War III era Historian, who was heralded as one of the first true civilian casualties of the war; the woman's ideas and philosophies were never really given any attention until the war ended so many decades after her death. Science and Physics was handled by AI 'Albert Einstein', a famous physicists from Earth's 20th century, World War II Era. They had other, far less conventional classes, such as military tactics and strategy, and Ducard had said many more would be introduced to them as their minds and bodies developed, such as today's new class, headed not by an AI, but by another SIGMA veteran.

John was sitting in the class now, he could feel his eyes drooping, it was rather boring in here. The walls were a pale yellow, the ceiling a tiled white, and the floor marble. The classroom was enormous, with room enough for all eighty members of Delta Company, and whomever their teacher was; John knew that the classroom would only ever be so densely populated this and the next lesson, before they were broken up to be taught separately. John unfortunately wasn't sitting next to George and Justin, but spending a year with Delta Company ensured that he wasn't without friends, so he did make idle conversations with his company-mates. His conversation and boredom were cut short when the door opened, the lights dimmed, and a SIGMA Operative entered, simultaneously activating a hologram projector.

"My name." Said the man, who wore the SIGMA I fatigues, the blue and black digital camouflage uniform, as opposed to the SIGMA II's black and red similarly camouflaged uniforms. "Is David Barton-S1-42." As he spoke, his name appeared on the holographic display, which cast a warm blue glow on the classroom. "This class is meant to introduce you to the various enemies you as SIGMAs will be fighting." He said, his voice was a deep baritone, and his accent was a thick, gravelly English. "Make no mistake about it, children, aside from your primary training and combat ops, this will be the most important class you will take in the entire program." He strode over to the right side of the hologram projector, and opened up his Smart Watch. "Today we will be going over weaknesses. Until I see fit that you have a _firm_ grasp of every weakness in our enemy species, you will not advance to their strengths and their specific war strategies. Am I _clear?!" _

_"Sir, yes sir!" _

"Good."

A second passed, before an image of a Turian First Strike Ground Trooper appeared, his armor on, his rifle shouldered, and his feet planted firmly on the 'ground'; a determined expression was set upon his face, and his finger was resting on the trigger of his rifle.

"This, recruits, is a Turian." Barton began loudly, "they are as militaristic as we Humans, if not more so. Their entire society is based around the military. Their economy, goes to the military. Their workers, support the military. Their people, what do they do?"

"Military." The class said almost in unison.

"Damn straight, at the age of seventeen, every Turian is conscripted into their Military to do one full five-year tour, after which they can do whatever they want." Barton explained, "this means that _any_ Turian you meet has military training and experience. _Never_ underestimate a Turian, because they will exploit your hesitation!" He paused, and the hologram zoomed in on the Turian's head. "Like Humans, the Turian body is controlled by their brain, which is protected by their exo and endo skeleton. That's outer and inner, kids. You put three bullets in their heads, and they'll go down." The hologram moved down to show the torso, "they have two lungs and one heart. Putting a bullet in any one of these will cripple or kill the Turian, but their Achilles' Heel is their lower back." The hologram shifted around to show where he was referring to. "There's a large collection of nerves and arteries right here. It isn't their heart, and their bodies can unconsciously isolate them should they be damaged, but putting these things through intense trauma can put the Turians into a comatose state, or even give them seizures."

The hologram zoomed out and demonstrated, a Human with a bat came in swinging, and slammed into the Turian's lower back. Immediately the phantom dropped his rifle and fell to the ground, shaking and twitching in a horrifying fashion.

"Turian biology doesn't include a gag reflex, or the ability to vomit. But you hit them there, and they'll do the next best thing." The Turian in question started convulsing violently, as some sort of liquid began pouring out of their mouths. The entire class cringed, and a few made some noises, but the majority knew not to say anything, Ducard had once shown them a picture of a battlefield, and their reactions had incited a several hour long rant. "But Turians train to protect this area, and their armor and shields are thicker here, so effort will be needed to capitalize on this weakness. We can speculate that Turian super soldiers were augmented to remove this weakness, but we cannot confirm this.

"Of note, their biology allows them to heal a great deal faster than Human beings. Not as fast as a Krogan or Vorcha, but fast enough to be a worry should you be put in an extended engagement." A new hologram was shown, this one of a SIGMA fighting a Turian Ghost. "The Turians hand-to-hand and melee combat focuses on speed, ferocity, and their talons. Its primary weakness, however, is a low center of gravity."

The hologram depicted the SIGMA and the Ghost fighting. The Ghost went in for several quick jabs and then a slice of his talons, the SIGMA blocked the blows and intercepted the talon. The Ghost tried to wrench its grip from the SIGMA's unbreakable grip, and when this failed, he tried to sweep the SIGMA's legs out from under him. This failed, and the SIGMA delivered a powerful, debilitating punch to the Turian's skull, dazing it.

"You can counter it with speed and power. A good defense is the best offense for a Turian." He paused, "another weakness on the Turian, for the males at least, is their mandibles. Akin to testicles on a Human male, you break a mandible, you'll have broken a Turian."

The class took this in as a new hologram appeared. This one showed a Salarian STG agent, in full armor, holding a pistol loosely in its right hand, aimed outward at an unseen target.

"Salarians are your next threat. Nowhere near as physically powerful as the Turians, but they make up for it with speed, agility, and _raw_ mental capacity. Generally, any given Salarian is two and a half times smarter than the average Human. You fight a Salarian, you want to go in with a Squad AI as your tech defense. You go in quick, hard, and fast, and the Salarian will go down just as fast." The hologram played out, the Salarian ghosted backing up as it fired its pistol at unseen enemies. Qucikly, three SIGMAs appeared in the air and surrounded the Salarian, these SIGMAs had no weapons, but went in fast and hard. They hit with debilitating, superhuman strength, and in seconds had the Salarian countered and defeated, with multiple broken bones.

"When you're fighting a Salarian in a firefight, you shoot for the eyes." Barton explained, "their lungs are small but powerful. Their heart is their smallest organ, and is difficult to properly pinpoint, as its essentially surrounded by a wall of the other organs. The only organ that isn't wrapped around the heart is the stomach and the genitals, both at the lower ends of the body. Their brain is in their head, but Salarian Brains are much less like Human Brains, they can handle trauma and injuries much better than ours can. So you shoot at eyes, or in between them, where their central nervous system is. Score a perfect shot, and they'll be dead before they can even start twitching." He explained. "Their bones and their organs are all weak, though, so while they are skilled in hand-to-hand, they rely on defense and agility. Brutalizing them with speed, force, and strength, is how you beat a Salarian."

The hologram shifted now, but not before a SIGMA Kid had his hand in the air. Barton nodded at the kid, who stood up to ask his question, "sir, what if it's a Salarian who is utilizing augmentations?"

"The only Salarians with Augments, that we know of, are STG operatives, and the only reason we know, and no one else doesn't, is because of Alliance Intelligence's hard work and determination. But their augs are nothing like the nanotubes we have, their bones are simply thicker, about as thick as a Human's. So they're still of little consequence, but do not discount the possibility of Salarian SIGMAs, as it is an increasingly probable possibility." Said Barton, as an Asari appeared in front of the class.

This one was a Commando, with warrior paint on her face, ornate armor on her body, and a powerful looking shotgun in her arms.

"This is an Asari. They're a bigger galactic hypocrite than we are. They want peace, yet they're more corrupt and they've got more skeletons in their closets than the Turians and many of the Asari Client Races _combined_." He explained, "they rely heavily upon biotics in combat, but their physiology is remarkably similar to ours. So you fight them with mass: More Bullets, more strength, more tactics. Hit them in the head and they die as fast as a Human. Their hearts are weaker than ours, so if you hit them there, that's a confirmed kill too, but don't aim on their left chest, their hearts is in the center of their chests." Barton explained. "In hand to hand combat, first off, try to avoid it at all costs. With their biotics, they're a big threat. However, if you can defend long enough you can make a chink in their armor. Respond with brute force to destroy their barriers, and then you'll be good, their bones are one and a half times thicker than a Human's, but your augmented strength will circumvent this.

"Those are the big three. Each society compliments the other, so engaging all three at once will be difficult, but that's why you're here, to learn how to destroy your enemies even when the odds are stacked against each other." He paused, "But they aren't your only enemies. Here you have Batarians." The hologram shifted to a Batarian Hunter, his armor black and his face mean, as he held his rifle haphazardly in alert-carry. "They have as many weaknesses as strengths. Their muscles and bones are twice as dense and thick as a Human's, which means they're strong and resilient. Their skin is thicker than ours, but easier to break. Their immune systems are stronger, and their training fine-tunes their reflexes. But they're lazy, they're used to civilian targets. In addition, they're stupid, arrogant, and despite what they'll have you believe, their training is sub-par, only good enough to teach them which end of the gun to point at the enemy." He explained, "shooting them in any of the eyes will guarantee an instant kill, as large nerve clusters are behind each one and each cluster can devastate the body if destroyed. Shooting in between all four sets will guarantee an instant death.

"In hand to hand combat, Batarians are bested only by Drell, Turians, and Krogan, in that order. They rely on brute force and strength to do their dirty work, so speed, agility, and defense are key to defeating them. Their primary weakness is their eyes, they're big targets and one hit will paralyze them." The hologram demonstrated, a SIGMA arrived and began fighting the Batarian, the Batarian's slow and bulky movements were all dodged by the quick, spry SIGMA, who slammed his fist into the Batarian's right eyes, the Batarian slammed onto the ground, partially paralyzed as it writhed in pain.

John found the holographic depictions slightly unnerving. They were done in complete and utter silence, which gave them a ghost-like quality, and the brutality of their contents gave them a horrifying sense of realism. Their dull blue glow was the only friendly thing about them, but even that seemed to make them seem more frightening.

"Then you've got Krogan and Vorcha." A hologram of each appeared, side by side. "They're similar in that they evolved at the bottom of the food chain, and are bred to kill, and evolved to kill. Krogan and Vorcha both have accelerated healing factors, but Krogan are far more powerful than Vorcha, due to their extremely strong muscles, hard hides, thick bones, and multiple redundant nervous systems and organs. Krogan die with headshots, but Vorcha need to be debilitated with shots to the body and to the head, otherwise they'll get back up." The holograms depicted what Barton was explaining; the Krogan was hit with a large caliber bullet to the head, and slumped down to the ground, and Vorcha was hit with a wall of fire for an entire six seconds, before it too died.

"When going up against a Krogan in hand-to-hand, you need speed and cunning on your side, otherwise you'll lose. Period. Dodge the Krogan's blows, outsmart him, and then jam your knife in the junction between their plates, located at the back of their heads, right next to their ears. You stick the knife there, and one hard tug will rip the plates right off, exposing their brains for your onslaught." Thankfully the holograms only highlighted where the knife should go. "Vorcha, on the other hand, will heal just about as fast as you can hit them. So you need to hit them faster, and with a knife. Repeated stabs to the throat, chest, and face, will kill him, but watch out for their disease-ridden claws, as they will be used against you." Barton explained. "But both suffer from one major, common weakness: Numbers. The Vorcha have to stow away to get off of their planet, and the Krogan are still afflicted by the Genophage, so both are in short supply." He explained.

"This is a Drell." A new hologram appeared, this one showed a Drell. It had thick green skin, and wore armor lighter than what the Alliance Army wore. "They aren't militaristic, but are the primary ground defense for the Hanar. The Hanar have before attempted to create unmanned drones for their ground combat, but their aquatic homeworld and colonies creates incalculable amounts of rust, and turns the machines into hunks of scrap. So on the ground, they rely on the Drell, and in space, they rely upon satellites and UAV Fighter Drones. Hanar aren't much of a physical threat, just pump them full of lead and they'll go down _fast._ Drell, on the other hand, they rely on speed, agility, and martial arts to beat you in hand-to-hand, so defense and strength will best them, but they are a special case, which we'll cover later. On the battlefield, they prefer semi-automatic and extremely accurate weapons, preferring to take out a target quickly and switch to the next, though it's been centuries since they've actively participated in a war, so their skills in it are weak. Biologically, they have weak lungs in standard Earth-atmoshperes, due to centuries spent in Kahje's extremely moist atmosphere; but they possess dense muscles and bones. This, coupled with their speed and agility, makes them capable hand-to-hand opponents. However a major weakness is their memory, which is eidetic in nature, but completely uncontrollable; they can train to suppress this, but powerful trigger words, such as 'Mother' and 'Father', can in close proximity, distract them enough to score kills."

He paused, and the hologram shifted to a featureless, albeit large being.

"This alien, however, is perhaps the second most dangerous to us as a species, and as a military branch." He explained, "you cannot show knowledge of this race to _anyone,_ as they are underdeveloped and undiscovered by anyone but us." Barton told them, before the hologram took form.

It was an enormous, reptillian biped. It stood tall at eight feet, with thick muscles and a tough hide of green scales. Its eyes were shaped like diamonds, and its irises were like a Snake's. It was armored in a uniform much like what late 20th and early 21st century Humans wore, Battle Dress Uniforms. This one wore a camouflage pattern not unlike the Woodland Camo, and in its arms was a weapon that looked suspiciously like a blunderbuss, with a battery on its end and a bayonet on its front.

"This is a Saltorian. From what we've learned about them, they evolved at the absolute _bottom_ of their food chain." Barton explained, "early in their history, everything was trying to kill them. Plants, animals, even their own homeworld. They evolved to fight, literally, everything, even each other. They are an extremely religiously dedicated species, worshiping some god they call the 'Hoomanisire'." He continued, "they fight with wave tactics, their infantry moves in with kinetic weaponry akin to shotguns, while their other, more dedicated forces, stays back to fight with energy weapons."

"Energy weapons, sir?" Called out a SIGMA, "I thought they didn't exist?"

"The Saltorians figured it out, kid." Said Barton, "they use Lasers and Bullets as much as we use bullets ourselves. But Laser Weaponry is restricted to their special forces, their 'BattleVectors'. These laser weapons are extremely powerful, our estimates put it at being able to take down our shields with a full powered five second burst, and able to burn through Marine Armor with another two seconds of fire." He explained, "_nothing_ in the known Galaxy is as effective against our forces as these weapons here. But they suffer from an extreme weakness: heat. If they fire for too long, the weapon overheats, and they can't use it until it cools down, five seconds is their maximum." He explained, "they have no shielding technology, but their scales are thick, about twice as thick as Human Skin, and twice more as tough. Their bones are several times stronger than ours, and on average they can lift more than six hundred pounds, and that's on average. Their BattleVectors can lift twice that with minimal effort.

"So in hand to hand, you need defense, speed, and a knife. Their genetic and physical structure isn't too different from ours, so if you engage one, you go for the face, the neck, or their chest. They have at least one backup for each organ, except their brains. This allows them to live for an average of six hundred and twelve years. If you can engage one, in a melee, with backup, do so." Barton explained, as the hologram enforced what he was saying. "In a firefight, you want to keep their infantry pinned with massive amounts of suppressive fire. Vehicles, machine guns, mortar and kinetic fire are all to be used. When going up against their energy-weapon wielding forces, keep your shields up and your heads down. Those things are tough even against Titan Armor."

"Sir." Called a SIGMA Kid, getting to his feet. "If the Saltorians are so dangerous and war-like, why haven't we just killed them?"

"Because that's not what we do, son. We will only raise our weapons against them if they hit us first, which won't be likely for several centuries at the bare minimum, they advance exceedingly slowly." Barton answered, before he paused, and the hologram cut off, leaving the room in darkness.

"Now. I'm about to show you the absolute most dangerous enemy you will ever find yourselves fighting. These people have been at the top of the food chain for so long that they could find no challenge except in each other. They are extremely war like and have even used nuclear weapons against each other, on multiple occasions." He explained, the darkness of the room amplifying the seriousness of his tone. "Three times they drowned their homeworld in an all-consuming war, and they nearly did it again before they figured out how to hit space. They've fought everything that has hit them with reckless abandon, and will hit harder and faster than _anything_ you will face as a SIGMA II." He explained, as a hologram began forming. "These, as I said, will be the most dangerous foes you will ever face. I am talking, of course... About Human Beings." He stated, as the Hologram phased into existence, showing a SIGMA Operative, holding his rifle at alert-carry.

"Lieutenant Barton." Said a SIGMA Kid, standing up, "when will we have to fight our _own_ species?" He asked, concerned.

"Kid, let me tell you one thing." Barton said seriously, "we've fought aliens on two different occasions. We fought the Turians during the Second Contact War, and we defeated them with massively disproportionate casualties, on _their_ end. Then we fought several mercenary organizations, each one ceasing to exist when we were through." He explained, "every time we've fought aliens, their resistance was _laughable._ None of them have given us any sort of challenge, none of them have satisfied our desire for Human blood to grace the battlefield. So we had to find someone who could properly challenge our military might, but only one species in existence has the know-how and the experience to do this: The Human Race." He stated solemnly, "even now, we're fighting ourselves in the form of the Rebellion, which is the only standing war the Alliance has engaged itself in that has properly challenged us. That's because we're fighting _ourselves,_ no one else can challenge a Human being, quite like a Human can! The Turians couldn't, not with their Spartan society. The Mercenaries couldn't, not with their guerrilla warfare. Only Humans can fight Humans, because only Humans have _defeated_ Humans."

"With Human beings, you have two major targets to hit in a firefight. That's their head, and their heart." John was getting increasingly horrified at the detached way the man was speaking about this, about how to properly slaughter his own race. "Their heart is located on the left side of their chest, and three bullets from an SFR will put them down for good. In firefights, Humans dig in and try to beat you through attrition, and late-night assaults. Rarely will you find a Human army fighting during the day, but when you do, prepare yourself for a battle unlike any other, because Humans fight for keeps." Barton explained, as the SIGMA Hologram was now shown fighting Rebels, Turians, and various Mercenaries, always winning with minimal injury. "In hand to hand, Human bones are weak against repeated, strong, and fast assaults. Snapping them is easy, and if you can hit them with a strong blow to the throat, you can collapse their wind-pipe and effectively incapacitate them. However, when engaging a Human in hand to hand, expect him to employ dirty tricks. Kicks to the groin, dirt to the face, surprise knives, anything a Human can use as a weapon, he will, _believe me."_ Barton explained. "Humans are a generally weak species, so they tend to employ large-scale machinery to do their warfare, mechs are common in Human armies, and are designed to take exorbitant amounts of fire and dish out twice as much damage. To counter this, get under the mech and plant explosives, it works _every time."_

"Humans also make use of Augmented Forces, as a type of assured victory. When going up against Human Augmented Forces, get numbers on your side immediately, arm yourself with extremely heavy artillery, or be prepared to call in a danger-close, precision, Naval MAG Strike, because damn near no ground forces can defeat the Alliance's SIGMA Operatives."

* * *

><p>AN:

_If you liked the chapter, leave a review! I'm always reading them, looking for ways to improve my writing. _

_If you're looking for updates, check out my profile! I'm constantly updating it with the status of my stories. _

_'Till Next Time!_

_-PFB_


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

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><p>"Train up a child in the way he should go,<br>And when he is old he will not depart from it."

- Provervs 22:6, the New King James Bible.

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><p><em>2210:<em>

Raids on Human worlds pick up once again, the first few hit-and-runs produce empty colonies and overwhelmed defense flotillas. At first it is thought to be rebels attempting new tactics, but when non-Alliance Species bodies are found in the war zones, Rebel causes are quickly written out. The colonies hit by the mercenary groups all share similar signs: They were extreme outer edge colonies, with a limited AAF presence, if they had one at all, and all citizens from the colony that weren't killed during the resistance, are simply missing. Few details at all are available on who could be doing the invasions and mass-abductions, but the Alliance's civilian populace is quick to assume that it could be the events that lead to the next series of Mercenary Wars.  
>Many civilians in the Alliance Outer Territory make desperate outcries for more Armed Protection, as they fear further attacks. Army personnel numbers are bolstered as a result, but little else is done as the Alliance sends more ships out to scout the Relay Colonies.<p>

_2211:_

The Gaian Rebellion picks up the pace as reports come that rebels have begun using weapons of mass destruction upon Alliance Armed Forces. Reports on weapon identities have varied from chemical/biological weapons, to nuclear weapons, to weaponized antimatter.

The Quarian Race hits an unprecedented population level as they continue to rise, their number hits twenty five million for the first time since before the Geth Rebellion.

Reports begin circulating that the Quarians are pushing for Human assistance in retaking old territory from the Geth, but the Alliance Parliament is too deeply divided upon the subject to reach an answer.

_2214:_

As the SIGMA II's reach teen ages, the Alliance sends in special agents to inquire as to the status of their training. Four squads of three SIGMA II's each is pit against a squad of SIGMA I's in a paralyzing paint match. Despite the II's best efforts, they can only take down two of the five of the SIGMA I squad, though the fact that they took down two was something both the Director for Augmented Affairs, and Christopher McGraw mentioned was unprecedented.

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><p>July 8th, 2215<p>

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><p>It took only a single utterance of "WAKE UP!" For the eighty teenagers that made up the ranks of SIGMA II Delta Company to begin scrambling from their beds.<p>

In the years since their recruitment into the program, the children-turned-teenagers were progressing beautifully towards full-blown augmented soldier-hood. Their bodies were now beginning to go through the stages of puberty, which only allowed their trainers to drill and train them thrice as hard as before. Despite this, it was well known that any of the SIGMA II's were at least as effective as an Alliance Soldier, and were well on their way towards surpassing the Marines in skill.

Today, however, was different, and John S2-15 was not the only one who noticed.

As Joseph Ducard entered the barracks, everyone tensed up at his ever-so-subtle scowl. Each of the SIGMA Teens could tell that something had made him angry, and as two more SIGMA I's entered the room carrying boxes, only a few of them noticed how the last to enter the room seemed to have spoken an order to someone outside.

_"Atten-shun!"_ Shouted Ducard, and everyone in the room immediately snapped out of their post-sleep reverie, and snapped to attention. "Ladies, today the very last of you has made his first step towards manhood." He stated, his voice deep, everyone in the room knew who he was referring to, Jeffrey S2-77 had turned thirteen just this morning, marking the last SIGMA II in Delta Company to turn teen. "That means we've got to start treating you all a _lot_ harder…" He paused, and nodded his head forward, the other two men with their boxes came forward. "And that also means we're going to start trusting you… With a lot more than what we have in the past." He stated, reaching into one of the boxes and withdrawing a pistol and a magazine.

With instinctual precision and blinding speed, Ducard slapped a magazine into the gun, chambered a round, removed the safety, aimed the weapon and fired at a light fixture on the ceiling, in the gap between the two lines of SIGMA Teens. Ducard and the other two super soldiers noted with a sense of pride how none of the teens moved during the demonstration.

"This, ladies, is a Special Forces Pistol." Ducard stated, flipping the safety back on. "It holds a sixteen round magazine with room for an extra round in the chamber. It fires as fast as you can pull the trigger, and can shatter the shields of an Alliance Marine in three shots. It fires _magnum_ rounds, so even if you - by some miracle of god - miss your target, it won't be pretty for the guy it ends up catching." He explained, "This gun and its brother, the Special Forces Rifle, has served the Alliance Special Forces faithfully for each and every war we've been in, and that _includes_ the Gaian Rebellion." He looked to his left, John could almost feel his pupils dilate as it registered that he was the one being looked at.

_"Two Fifteen,_ front and center." Ducard called.

John marched forward, _"John S2-15 reporting as ordered, sir!"_ He called.

In an instant, the gun was placed in a shocked teenager's hands. "This gun is yours. It is your ticket to _life itself."_ Ducard stated harshly, "Without you, it is useless, and without it, you are worthless. _This -"_ He pointed to it "- Is how war is fought, so _this_ is what you keep upon you at all times." He paused, "Now give it back."

Without hesitation, the teenager gave the gun back, but immediately regretted the action when the pistol whipped across his face a moment later.

"A good SIGMA _NEVER_ gives up his sidearm!" Ducard roared angrily, "It doesn't matter who asks for it! A two-bit mall cop on Earth, or the Director for Alliance Affairs _himself!_ You never, _ever_ give up your sidearm! Even if you've no ammunition for it, you keep the damn thing! Without it you are weak." He continued, "Without it you will _die!"_ He shoved the pistol back into John's hands, which were slightly covered in the blood that was leaking from the teen's nose. "Now give it to me." Ducard ordered.

"Sir… No sir." John hesitated only for a moment before denying his superior the weapon he'd been given.

"Give me the gun, John!" Ducard ordered, leaning down and getting right up in John's bleeding face.

"Sir no sir."

_"That's an order child, _give me the gun!"

_"Sir no sir!"_

"And don't you forget it!" Ducard nodded with a slight grin, before he gave the teen a belt, with a holster, two magazine pouches - both filled with two magazines each - and an empty clip for a portable radio. "Now everyone line up, and get your weapon!" He ordered, "And if I see one damn safety off before we leave this room, you're all missing breakfast!" This made something click in John's mind, and he looked down; upon noticing that the safety to his gun _was_ in fact off, he switched it back on, wondering if Ducard had left it off on purpose, to ensure they would miss breakfast.

John returned to his bunk and quickly dressed himself. His old belt was now replaced with this new one; he felt that the unfamiliar weight on his hip would soon become anything _but_ unfamiliar. Upon his hip was an object made _only_ to kill, and though John wouldn't admit it, his mind was already going through dozens of scenarios in which he could successfully kill the men in this room, with the ammunition he had.

In five minutes, the entirety of Delta Company was dressed and armed. The fact that the three SIGMA Ones had yet to leave, told each of the eighty teenagers that there was something else waiting for them, John couldn't help but wonder if it was waiting outside the room, where the SIGMA Operative on the far left had told him to wait.

"Now… I'm sure you're all wondering why you've yet to go out on your morning physical training run." Said Ducard, John and everyone else in the Delta Battalion immediately noted the return of the loathing tone to his voice. "Well… I'll be blunt and simple, because you've earned the right, to deserve that." He paused, then looked at the SIGMA Operative on the far left, and nodded. "There is a man in the Alliance, who is partly responsible for the funding this program receives. This man is a perfectionist, wanting to make what he calls a 'perfect child', and anything less to him is a failure on his end." He explained, as the operative walked to the door. "Simply put, his experimentation in Human Perfection gave him exactly what he wanted… But for reasons I'm not at liberty to discuss, she's found herself here for the next month. Call it punishment, call it continued perfection… Call it what you will, you've all got a new friend for the next thirty days." He finished, as the operative opened the door and bade the mysterious woman inside.

John's head was abuzz with questions that he almost demanded need answers. He knew that there were some private funders for the SIGMA II program, not everything they did could be funded simply with taxpayer money, and very little of what they did was _legal_ in the first place, so private sector funds were required at points so they could continue their super soldier creation. But no names had _ever_ been spoken to the SIGMA Teens, and if John would be honest with himself, this had to be the first time Ducard had spoken so honestly to them. Was that a sign of trust? Or a sign of how against this idea he was?

All of these thoughts froze in their tracks when he saw a woman, who couldn't have been older than him, enter the room behind the SIGMA Operative. Much like the SIGMA Teens, she was wearing a simple uniform: The Black T-Shirt, with red highlights and lines on its sides, the black and red digital-camouflage jacket, the similarly colored and camouflaged pants, and the black combat boots. Her hair was much, _much_ longer than anyone in this room's was, but when John looked at it he noted that it wasn't longer than Dr. Mossman's, which was neck-length, and it bore the traits of a fresh cut. The Drill Instructors must have made a compromise with whomever had sentenced this admittedly beautiful, and assumedly teenage soul to the hell that was on planet Sparta.

"This, Men, is Miranda S2-106." Ducard stated, as the SIGMA Teens lined up along their barracks, by instinct alone; they all knew that if Ducard began speaking, they should line up and listen, as if their lives depended on it. "Whatever the hell this idiot did -" John didn't miss the shocked, but rebellious look in the girl's eyes when she had been insulted in a way that was common place for the SIGMA Teens "- landed her in the singly most brutal military school on this side of Alliance Space. For the next thirty days, she will be a part of your family. You will train with her, you will eat with her, you will learn with her, and by god you will _fight_ with her before this month is out." John could tell, just by the look in the girls' eyes, that she was already planning some sort of escape, he recognized the look in her eyes, it was the very same one behind the eyes of every SIGMA II trainee: It was the look of a ruined childhood, of a stressful life.

Ducard must have noticed the look too, or he had been informed ahead of time of the reason she had been sent here. He leaned down very close to her right ear, and though it looked like he was going to whisper, he did anything but. "And if you even _think_ about using whatever you think you might know, to try and escape this planet… Ask them about Michael S2-172." He threatened her, before he stood up straight.

"Line up outside! We run in fifteen!" He ordered, and just a moment later the SIGMA Teens were rushing for the doors.

Miranda was obviously confused, she had no idea what to do, and John noticed. The SIGMA Teens, however, seemed too absorbed in their instinctual 'get the hell out' actions, that no one stopped to help her. John slowed down just enough to grab Miranda's flawlessly skinned left arm with his callused right hand.

"Come on!" He advised, pulling the teen along with him without breaking stride, "you do _not_ want to disappoint them!"

In eleven seconds, plus the two that John had cost them in dragging the new recruit out with him, all of the SIGMA Teens were all lined up and ready for their run. For the first fifteen minutes of the run, everything was as normal as SIGMA life could be, but the SIGMA Teens' luck ran out after that first fifteen minutes ran dry, and the newcomer's stamina began running low.

_"Why are we slowing down?"_ Came Ducard's deep voice, interrupting the cadence he'd been leading.

_"Come on, speed up!"_ John hurriedly whispered to Miranda, barely out of breath himself.

Miraculously, the raven-haired girl was able to hear him over the sound of her rasping, wheezing lungs, but her response was one that sent shivers down John's spine, "I _can't!"_

_Oh no…_ Went through John's mind, before Ducard ordered everyone to stop moving.

"What… Did I just hear?" Asked Ducard, who hadn't broken stride, and was now _literally_ jogging circles around the SIGMA Teens. "Who said the magic words? Was it you, Jeffrey?" He demanded, honing in on the few-hours old teenager. Jeffrey responded with a solid 'sir no sir', and Ducard took him on his word. "What about _you,_ Bill? You never were one for the run!" He shouted.

"Sir, it wasn't me, sir!" Shouted the Teen in question.

John spared an instant to look from Ducard, to Miranda, who was doubled over, gasping for breath. At this rate - "oh, it was _you!" _John silently cursed.

Ducard strolled up to the two, "Two Fifteen, why in God's blue Earth did you allow her to slow down?" He demanded, John made an attempt to answer, but Ducard cut him off, "Miranda, the only one here with a three syllable name and a two digit sentence. What gave you the idea that you _could_ slow down?" He asked, "do you know how much time we've lost?" He demanded.

Miranda, finally regaining her breath, looked to Ducard with a slightly confused look in her eye, "I… Just a few seconds?"

"The _first_ and _last _words that will come out of your mouth will be _SIR!"_ Ducard roared, "and I count forty seconds and _counting, _girly!" Ducard stated, "do you know how much can happen on the battlefield, in forty seconds?!"

"Sir no -"

"I'll tell you what can happen in forty seconds! Your entire defensive line can crumble, your entire squad could be taken out by rebel snipers, or alien suicide bombs." He listed, "you yourself could be pumped full of so much lead all of your pearly little skin and underdeveloped tits would be ripped from your body, and you'd bleed out, before half of that time had even passed!" Miranda had wisely not reacted to his statement, "_all_ because you thought you could slow down!" He leaned close to her, "I've got news for you, girly. For the next thirty days, you are in _Hell._ For the next thirty days you are a _soldier!_ I will work, train, and if I have to _beat_ as much of the civilian out of you as I can, in the next thirty days!" He paused, "but the spoiled little rich girl act will probably soften the blows…" He straightened up, and then looked at the person immediately to his right, and Miranda's left.

John silently groaned, as he knew what was coming.

"Two fifteen!"

"Sir?"

"You're in charge of this one." Ducard jammed his large, augmented finger in Miranda's face, "any mistake she makes will be counted as a mistake made by you, and you will receive her punishment _on top_ of whatever I give you!" He said, "for the next thirty days she will not eat, drink, or dig the panties out of her _butt_ without you knowing, and praying she doesn't do it in a way that disrespects or dishonors the image of the Human race! Is that understood!?" He demanded.

"Sir yes sir!"

"I don't think that's _fair,_ sir."

Silence. John felt his blood run cold, and his pupils dilate.

_She… Did… Not._ He shakily thought, using his peripheral vision to see Ducard's slowly widening eyes, and the rebellious look on Miranda's face. John knew he daren't even breathe, this girl had just put him on such thin ice, he could see the fish underneath it.

"And what do you think would be fair, woman?" Ducard asked slowly.

John silently begged Miranda to stop speaking, the other SIGMA Teens, all shared John's sentiments, because they knew it would be their heads on the chopping block should Miranda unwisely use her tongue.

"If I made a mistake, I should be the one to be punished!" She said, her Australian accent thick with rebellion.

_Now I know why they said never to let girls into the SIGMA II program._ Thought John, as he could almost see Ducard's face twitch into a smile.

"Well… Let me show you what I think." He said, bringing his smart watch up to chest-height. The holographic suite quickly sprouted forth, and in seconds, he had opened up a communications channel to the nearest training supplies center.

In less than fifteen minutes, all of the SIGMA Teens were on the move again. Each of them held an extra thirty five pounds on their back, all of them having been air-lifted to them. John was holding an additional thirty five, thanks to the word Ducard had come through on. Miranda had thankfully grown silent, though John was almost certain that it wasn't because she was angry that she was being punished, but she was angry that Ducard had mocked her, by severely decreasing the speed of their fast jog, to a fast walk.

A half hour passed, and on their return trip, all of the SIGMA Teens were sweaty, tired, and in possession of sore backs. John had refused to allow the seventy pound weight on his back defeat him, but it was made harder by the fact that Miranda had begun silently - or, he knew, her excuse for silently - complaining about the weight, and the jog.

When they reached the mess hall, and ended their run, Ducard ordered everyone into attention. The heavy breathing from the SIGMA Teens was thankfully ignored by the instructor, but they would soon realize that any admonishing would be replaced with a worse punishment, Ducard was heading for Miranda again.

John, sweat pouring down his forhead, and his lungs burning both through the need for more oxygen, and the simple exertion of expanding and compressing them as much and as fast as he was doing, almost prayed that the girl wouldn't talk back to Ducard. He knew better, though, her track record so far was a one hundred percent 'back talk' reputation, so he didn't have much to hope for.

"So." Said Ducard, quietly, "what have you learned?"

"That what you're doing here is inhumane!" Miranda said, making to slip the weight off of her shoulders.

"I didn't say you could remove the weight." Said Ducard, _"did I say you could remove your weights?!"_ He shouted.

"Sir, no sir!"

Came the responding shouts of each of the SIGMA Teens.

"Put it back on." Ducard ordered the sweaty teen, she did so, but not without growing a scowl. "Now… As to your question… We _aren't_ Humans, girlie. You know what SIGMAs are. You should know that 'inhumane tortuous experience', to us, is barely even a warm up." He paused, "now what have you learned?"

"Nothing!"

_"Don't do it, Two-One Oh Six!"_ Came the voice of a SIGMA Teen.

_"Seriously -"_ John repressed a smile, that was Justin's voice, _"- shut up Two-One Oh Six!" _

"All I've learned is that one mistake made by me is felt by the others! One mistake made by another is felt by _me!"_ John, his eyes still forward and his expression still stoic, was inwardly screaming for her not to bring up the 'fairness' argument again. "It's just -"

"Remove your weight pack and give it to John." Ducard ordered, John heard the other SIGMA Teens groan, they all knew what was coming next.

Miranda, however, did not, and thus refused, "why? Are you going to -"

"That is an _ORDER! REMOVE YOUR WEIGHT PACK!"_ Ducard bellowed, shocking Miranda into giving John another thirty five pound weight pack. "Now… Everyone, aside from miss Two-One Oh Six , drop and give me fifty. _Now!"_ He ordered, and in an instant the eighty SIGMA Teens were on their hands, and on Ducard's count, were pumping out pushups.

With the seventy pounds, John had had a rough time keeping up with the jog, but with one hundred and five extra pounds weighing down his back, it was nearly impossible for him to keep up with the pushups. It seemed that, for every set his fellows finished, he lagged behind by a second. It took them all ten minutes to knock out all fifty, but Ducard kept them all on the ground, upright, for another five minutes, and by the time they were all allowed up, their barely pubescent muscles were already sore and burning.

"You've got fifteen for lunch." Said Ducard, "you know where to put the weight packs."

John, the seventy nine SIGMA Teens, and Miranda, all entered the mess hall. They deposited their weight packs where instructed, and within minutes everyone had food and was eating. John, Justin, and George took their customary positions at the farthest end of the table in the center of the room, where they made idle conversation.

"I can't _believe_ she stood up to Ducard like that!" George said, his accent only seeing to thicken itself as he grew older.

Over the years, George had only ever seen fit to become more of a giant of a kid. Even at only just above thirteen years of age, George was already five feet tall, and it did not look like his growth, in size or in muscle, would stop at all. His tan white skin had only ever seen to deepen, and still in spite of his monstrous, brutish appearance, he still had a kind look behind his eyes.

"Oh hell, George, admit it, you would've done the same." Said Justin. Justin had aged far more gracefully than George, a lot like John had. His dark skin and lean bone structure had only thickened, and his muscles - while not developing as fast a George's or John's - were becoming thicker bi-monthly.

"Hey, I punched the recruiter." Said George, "hold no preconceptions, I won't punch an actual operative!" He, Justin, and John laughed.

The three continued to make idle conversation, burning through their food as they did so. It was only after they had finished eating, did John notice something that, in most other environments wasn't strange at all, but in an environment with eighty teenagers who had gone through everything _but_ War together, it was completely peculiar.

"Holy shit, look at that." Said John, nodding to Miranda, the only person in the entire room, who had an entire section of a table to herself.

Justin and George turned around, and saw what John was seeing. Justin shrugged, while George caught on to John's train of thought.

"You're not seriously…"

"Hey, for the next thirty days, she's one of us, right?" John reasoned.

George pointed to the table right next to Miranda's, that had several people actually sharing seats, in an attempt to stay away and isolate the outsider, who'd made the beginning of their day a living hell. "They would disagree…"

"They just need time to warm up to her." John said, getting to his feet.

"Want us to come along with you?" George asked, though he could almost tell what John would answer with.

"I'll call you over if I need you… But I don't think I will." John responded, before he strode across the mess hall.

Without any greeting, John plopped down into the seat next to the lone, raven-haired, impromptu teen soldier. Miranda looked at John apprehensively, her dark blue eyes betraying none of her inner thoughts.

John eventually extended his right hand, which had slowly - over the several years he'd spent on Sparta, with the SIGMAs - grown its own rough, callused exterior. "John S2-15." He greeted, casually.

Miranda stared at him for a few moments, before she took his hand and shook it. John was surprised, despite her delicate-looking frame, her grip was surprisingly strong. "Miranda Lawson." She said.

John's head popped up and he quickly looked around, no one had heard her, which he was thankful for. He looked back to Miranda and lowered his voice, "here, Miranda, you don't have a last name. _No one_ who is in the SIGMA Two program, has a last name. _I_ don't have a last name." He paused, recollecting her serial number, "You're Miranda S2-106, here. Alright?"

She looked at him incredulously for a moment, before she nodded. "Alright… Miranda _S2-106."_

"Good job." John straightened up, "so what on God's blue Earth did you do, that pissed your Dad off so much he sent you to Hell Camp?"

"I'd rather not talk about it."

"Hey, your childhood can't be any worse than ours." John chuckled.

"You know… I've met SIGMAs before… None of them are as open as you are." Miranda commented.

"Well, the SIGMAs you've met were augmented, had combat experience, and were on duty." John said, "on-base, you'd be surprised, the Ones are quite Human. They make jokes, they laugh, they eat."

"What about you 'Twos'?"

John shrugged, "we've a familial bond with each other. Any one of us would take a bullet for another. Even if they weren't from our company, we'd do it."

"There are _more_ of you?"

"Six hundred twelve." John supplied, "and any one of us would be willing to take up arms and fight to the death for his buddy, be it from his own company, his own squad, his own bunk, or from another company, another squad, another bunk."

"Then…" Miranda turned her head to the SIGMA Teens to their left, none of whom made any indication that they had been listening or looking at Miranda and John, though John had picked up the subtle signs, the perked ears, the determined forward stares, the works. "Why do they act so _cold_ to me? You're the only one today that hasn't called me 'girly' or looked at me like I was some kind of alien." She said, her Australian accent thick.

"Well... Simply put, they don't _know_ you." John said, "and you don't know them. The mutual strangerhood is essentially keeping you apart. But trust me when I say, just stick it out, they'll come to trust you like a sister." He explained, "one thing it may take you a while to learn is that us SIGMA Two's have a bond with each other, like _no_ other military unit out there. We are literally being raised in hell, alongside each other. Any one of us would give their life to save another... And given time, any one of us would give our life to save you."

"How do you know _that_?" Miranda inquired, dubiously.

John shrugged, "It happened once before... But _everyone_ had a reason to dislike him."

"Who?"

"You'll probably be seeing him soon." John nodded.

"Okay..." Miranda frowned, "why are _you_ acting so nice to me?"

"Aside from the fact that it's my ass on the line whenever you screw up?" John chuckled, "I tend to be ahead of the pack... And I happen to know that one weak link in the chain can destroy the entire unit. So even if I'm wrong, and no one here comes to like you, I want you to have at least _one_ friendly face to look for."

"But -" John caught it before it even entered Miranda's situational awareness.

The seventy nine other SIGMA Teens caught it a split second after John. In an instant, John's barely pubescent voice roared and cracked "_GRENADE!"_ as the non-lethal flash-bang was dropped into the mess from the skylights.

John locked his arm around Miranda's waist and brought them both hurtling towards the ground, just as the grenade came mid-way between the ceiling and the ground, and detonated in a massive, blinding, deafening explosion. The next few seconds wasn't the utter chaos such an attack would cause, in any other situation or location, but rather the results of five years of solid, day-in, day-out training.

SIGMA II Delta Company, and all eighty one SIGMA Teens therein, switched from a 'casual' state of mind to a full on 'battle' awareness. In the few milliseconds between the flash-bangs detonating, and the several fully-armed and armored SIGMA I squads roping into the building, storming the doors, and removing their tactical cloaks, the SIGMA Teens were reacting in their own way.

_Attack!_ John could almost hear Ducard say, _Is the best defense! You get hit with an ambush, you don't set up a defensive line, that's just what they'll want you to do! You fight fire with fire, you fight __**BACK!**_

And that was just what the SIGMA Teens were doing. Everyone was picking up their newly issued arms, flipping tables to create cover, flinging dish-trays to create distractions, and forming up in their squads to create unit cohesion. John, however, was unable to reach Justin and George, the other two in his three-man squad. They were on the other side of the room, and running across it would put them at risk of being hit with the SIGMA I Operatives' paralyzing paint rounds.

A military-training evolution of paintball, Paralyzing Paint rounds were exactly as advertised: It was paint that, when it impacted its target, rapidly hardened and solidified, to the point of incapacitation, should they hit enough or in the right places. They could only be undone by ultra-sound, not at all unlike pre-dispersed Cell Fluid. It was common knowledge among military recruits: Paint was _hell_ to clean off, even after it had been reverted to a liquid form and simply slid off.

But it was all irrelevant at this point in time, as John called on his limited biotic training to erect a sturdy-as-can-be barrier between him and the wall of paint fire.

"Miranda! Stay on my ass, don't you dare leave my sight!" John ordered, "now back up! We need -" He exerted a lot of energy to flip the table they had just been sitting at, onto its side, "- to get to cover!"

"Alright!"

"On three!" John shouted over the gunfire, as his free hand went to his pistol. One of the things John actually enjoyed about Hell Camp was that they had all but forced the SIGMA Teens to become ambidextrous, John could reliably fire any pistol he found, with either hand. He demonstrated this by confidently retrieving his pistol with his left hand, undoing the safety, and chambering a round. "One!"

"Wait, one two _go,_ or one two three _then_ go?" Miranda desperately shouted, as she ducked her head down at the sound of more gunfire.

"Two!"

"John, you didn't answer my -"

_"THREE!"_ John let his barrier fall, as he rose to his feet and laid suppressive fire against the oncoming Super Soldiers. Immediately he realized just why this weapon had felt like it had a different weight than the other ones he'd held, it too was loaded with paralyzing rounds. Four shots from his pistol were ushered, before John ducked down and then ran to the table for cover.

John joined Miranda, who - the teen noticed- was also enveloped in a biotic barrier. John wasted no time, "you're biotic!?"

"Yes!"

"Have you used it in combat?!"

"I've been trained in biotic mar-"

"That's not what I asked, have you used it in combat?!" John heard several paint rounds slam into their table, they were being targeted.

"I've -"

"Yes or no?!"

"Yes!"

"Then you make a barrier _on three!"_ He said, before he looked to his rear, he saw at least eighteen SIGMA Teens, all hiding behind an overturned table, each taking turns breaking cover to fire. "For them!"

"Them?!"

"Them!" John whistled loudly, attracting one of the teens' attention. He made a quick series of hand-signs, and the teen got the idea, he passed it along, and in seconds all of the still mobile teen soldiers were waiting for John's word.

"I don't think I can hold it for -"

"However long you can hold it is long enough!" John raised his voice, _"ONE!" _He heard more fire being directed to them, he knew what was coming, _"TWO, THREE!" _He rushed.

Immediately, the fruits of his efforts were bared. Miranda threw up a barrier big enough for the SIGMA Teens to run alongside, albeit with their heads ducked and their legs tucked. The SIGMA Teens, on John's word, rushed the gap between their table and John's. In moments, two became twenty.

"What do we know?" Came the voice of a SIGMA Teen, as John delegated suppressive fire to the ones with the smallest frames, at the edge of the table.

"Looks like five three man squads!" John called out.

"We have numbers on them!"

"But they have equipment on us!" John looked around, "they _aren't_ using grenades, nothing lethal, at least." He pointed out.

"What do you suggest we do?" A SIGMA Teen demanded.

John thought for a moment, and decided that a crazy strategy was better than no strategy at all. "We grab this! -" He slammed his fist onto the overturned table, "- we get everyone else to grab their's! We make a SIGMA II Zone, right there in the middle of the room!" He pointed to where he wanted to set up, "they'll surround us, and that will make it easier for us to find targets!"

"That's a _stupid plan,_ John!" A SIGMA Teen called out.

"Do you have a better one?"

"We hold our position -" The kid, almost immediately, was covered from head to heel in paralyzing paint.

"I vote John's idea!"

"Seconded!"

"What are we waiting for!"

"Okay! Move fast!" John ordered, "heaviest lifters, take a hold of the table's supports!" He indicated the iron bars on the underside of the table, "biotics, reduce its mass! The less distance we have to drag it, the better we are!" He ordered, "the rest of you, suppressive fire! Watch your shots, and go for where their shields are weakest!"

"That's _TITAN ARMOR!"_ A SIGMA Teen shouted, as he glowed violet-blue with biotic energy, "_what_ weak spots?"

"One!" John said, "two!" He prepared himself, and gripped the iron bars with his strong hand. "THREE!" He pulled as hard as he could, and thankfully he, and his brothers in arms, were able to drag the table, the biotics helped, but no one had good training in that area - not even John, so the help was temporary at best.

_"MAKE A RING!" _John heard a young voice shout.

_"Stop them!"_ He heard the deep, synthesized voice of a SIGMA I Operative shout.

_"Give them suppressing fire!" _He heard a SIGMA Teen respond, as the sound of more gunfire, and more tables scraping along the ground joined John and his allies' efforts.

In mere seconds, they had an octagonal ring of overturned tables, stationed in the center of the room. There were still two tables unaccounted for, and those tables were being used by the SIGMA I's. Those that didn't fit behind the table, were deploying cover spheres, John repressed a curse at that.

"Head count!" John shouted, as deeply and as loudly as he could.

"Sixty one uninjured! Two with various leg/arm/body injuries, but still mobile! The rest are down!" He heard George's accented voice call out, John noticed he indicated to the 'dead' as he did so.

"Alright!" John shouted, "here's what we do! We have numbers on them! There are only fifteen!" He shouted, "I want twenty of us -" He indicated the few half dozen on the left side of their ring of tables "- you all! You watch our backs and declare tactical cloaks!" They nodded and retreated a bit, to begin their jobs. "I want you five -" He indicated George, Justin, the biotic that had helped them earlier, and two other SIGMA Teens, "you take our injured and you keep them safe!" He looked to the rest of them, "we don't have their ammunition supplies, but all our guns take the same magazines! If you've got extra magazines, swap them! We can _win this!"_ He shouted, "if you don't have a job, you're shooting!"

John took cover behind one of the tables, and almost immediately heard his labors bear fruits. People were calling out ammunition checks, enemy positions, tactical cloak shimmers, everything. Over all the noise, of gunfire, of the shouts, John couldn't possibly miss the unmistakable 'clink' of a flash-bang grenade slamming onto the ground.

"Flash-bang!" John shouted, before he ducked his head down, clamped his eyes shut, and covered his ears with his arms. Half of the SIGMA Teens were fast enough to do so, and the rest were slightly slower, and they all suffered when the grenades exploded, blinding those too slow.

_"They're advancing!"_ John heard, muffled through the ringing in his ears.

"_They don't pass our tables!"_ John ordered, breaking cover and sighting down the first SIGMA he could see.

The SIGMA had his augmentations, and his battle instincts on his side, in addition to his equipment and shields. But John had just over fifty SIGMA II recruits on his side, and already those that were affected by the flash-bangs were shaking off the effects and getting battle-ready once more. John emptied his entire magazine into the SIGMA Operative in front of him, seven shots were what it took to deplete the man's shields, but the rest of John's shots were absorbed by his armor. But John had numbers on his side, and in seconds the SIGMA - who reacted just an instant too slow in diving for cover - was covered in paralyzing paint, and frozen.

"We got him!"

"Keep firing!" Ordered a smiling John, as he ducked back behind cover to reload, but what he found horrified him, even as his body instinctually carried out his mind's commands.

Miranda S2-106, their newest company-member, was doing nothing. She wasn't providing barrier support, she wasn't launching biotic death, she wasn't taking the pistol off of a nearby 'deceased' SIGMA Teen and using it to fight, she was literally doing nothing. No activity, on the outside of their ring of tables, meant a weak link in their defensive line, John knew this, every Human in the military knew this, and they knew that it was horrifying.

And the worst part was that the SIGMA I Operatives noticed before John.

_"Justin, help -"_ It was too late, someone shouted out in warning that he saw a cloak shimmer, and just as several paint rounds soared through the air to slam into a shielded, invisible figure, said figure let loose with automatic fire.

Miranda scrambled for a horrified John, who was attempting to take out the SIGMA One, but that action was reflected by everyone else present. _Every_ SIGMA Teen was firing at the cloaked figure, and while they succeeded in 'killing' the man, in seconds they were all surrounded.

_"You're surrounded!"_ That was the unmistakable voice of Ducard, fully armed and armored in the very same armor none of the SIGMA Teens had seen him use in months, _"BAM! -"_ To emphasize his point he fired his rifle and 'killed' another SIGMA Teen "- _you're dead! All of you!" _

John and the other SIGMA Teens knew their instructor was correct. After a moment's hesitation, they all lifted their pistols in a sign of defeat. In fifteen minutes, the mess-hall turned war zone was devoid of gunfire, but filled with SIGMA Teens with mops, buckets, sponges, and everything in between. Ducard wouldn't let their work get them out of a lecture, though.

_"What_ have we drilled since day _one_ of your combat training?!" Demanded Ducard, who was clad in full armor, save for his helmet and his mask, both of which were magnetically clamped together, and held under his arm. "Your defensive line means _everything!"_ He looked specifically at John S2-15, who stood in front of him at attention, he being the only one in the room not working. John had been unanimously selected as the recipient of the harshest punishment, thanks to his taking charge of everyone and giving them all orders, during the gunfight. "Your idea, making your own borders, it _might -"_ Ducard emphasized the word by shouting it in a deep bellow "- have worked, had you not let your newest recruit man your defensive line!" And that was why John's punishment would be twice as hard, he was essentially taking care of Miranda, and thus, her wrongs were his, so at its essence, because she let the defensive line break down, _he_ let the defensive line break down. Her rookie mistake was _his_ rookie mistake, and John knew just how he was going to suffer for it.

With the SIGMA II's, outside of their own minds during training, they had extremely little free time. Their only true 'free' time was spent during their sleeping hours, from Eleven PM Alliance Standard Time, to Five AM AST. Originally, that hadn't been much thanks to the SIGMA Kids being too exhausted to even think about thinking, but as they matured they found themselves being less and less tired at bed time, and thus, had time to think to themselves. Sleep time was, to a SIGMA II, his own, _personal_ time, and John's punishment would be the removal of said time.

"You will _not_ be sleeping for the next two days!" Ducard sentenced him, "if our biocomms even _think _you've fallen asleep, _no one,_ not Delta Company, not Alpha Company, _NO ONE will be sleeping!"_ Ducard shouted, "have I made myself _crystal clear?!"_

"Sir, yes sir!" John shouted.

"Then get to cleaning! If this place isn't spick-and-span in the next fifteen minutes, you'll all be getting food paste for dinner tonight!" Ducard shouted.

* * *

><p><em>AN: _

_Now, a lot of you may be wondering why I brought Miranda into the story as I did.  
>Well, simply put: Call it a bit of plot-advancing wish fulfillment. When I'd first come up with the ideas for the SIGMA II's, I'd been heavily into my first ME 2 playthrough - first ever, folks - and the idea got stuck in my head: What if Miranda had to go through S2 training? What'd happen?<br>I promptly forgot the idea a week after I figured out you could romance Tali but it came back to me as I was drafting TSW, and I thought: What the hell, why not? And I worked it into the plot._

_Also folks, I've begun throwing up the Edited Chapters for TFW! You can see which ones are edited and which ones aren't by checking the Chapter and looking for the - Edited - tag. I've only got the prologue up now but very soon I plan on putting up TFW 1 - Edited -. _

_Remember folks, I'm constantly updating my profile with the status as to my stories! Check it out if you're looking for news, release dates, or just want to know what's going on in the mind of the FartBurger.  
>Untill Next Time!<em>

_-PFB_


	4. Chapter 3

_A/N:_

_ Phew! I'm glad Miranda didn't royally backfire on me, of the many - **many - **things that will happen in this story, that was one of the ones I was worried about. _

_Next: A lot of people have come to me, asking about the future of this series (Which I've been coming to call the 'Mass Effect Warverse', in lieu of the FartBurgerVerse... For obvious reasons.)_  
><em>I'll say here what I've said every time: If I publish the story, two things will stop me entirely from finishing it: An act of God, or a series of unfortunate events.<em>  
><em>So, as I've published this story (TSW), it will be finished. I am planning on publishing three more stories after this, and if at all possible, I will finish each and every one of them.<em>

_However I do have to mention, you guys are wondering what'll be happening *way* down the line... And we've barely gotten anywhere in **this** story!_  
><em>I'm lovin' the love... But... Really?<em>

_And, without further ado:_  
><em>We're off!<em>

* * *

><p>Chapter 3:<p>

* * *

><p><em>"Do you know how they make them, Threlnan? No, of course you don't. They find some barbaric planet where children fight before they can walk, and they hunt down the most bloodthirsty killers. They recruit them when they're twelve, thirteen, fourteen, with all that hate and that arrogance, just at the age when you think you're bulletproof and nothing can kill you. Then they keep them like that, give them a gun and some armour, and point them at the nearest enemy. They're not soldiers, colonel, they're maniacs."<em>

**_— Lord General Xarius on the Space Marines, Warhammer 40,000_**

* * *

><p>July 10th, 2215<p>

* * *

><p>Ducard hadn't lied when he had told John that he wouldn't sleep for two days. His second night, he did the same as the previous and stood vigil outside their barracks. The previous night had been horrible, Ducard had increased their workload over the entire day, by at least two. John was exhausted by the time they reached the barracks, but he knew he couldn't enter, lest he give in to temptation, so he stood outside, in the cold, Spartan night, and fought sleep as bitterly as he fought his own body.<p>

That was merely the first day. Now, his body was exhausted, he had slight bags under his eyes, his dark green eyes had dulled to a dull gray, and he felt so much pressure in his brain that he knew not what to do with it. Many times he could feel sleep sneaking up on him, but it was only for the first half hour that he could stave it off with work. After that, his body was too exhausted to push himself up anymore, so he simply had to stand, and force his eyes to stay open, only ever to close when they had to blink.

John looked to the sky and sighed deeply, before he inhaled just as deeply and allowed the chilled air of Planet Sparta to cool his lungs, and provide some sort of 'wake up' message to his body. The sky above him was filled with stars, and the distant dark red nebulae in front of them. John was trying to find Sol, the star that fed the lifeblood to Earth, the home of the Human race. But he couldn't find it, he knew which star it was because it stood in the center of a cluster of six other stars, at least in its constellation. The six other stars were fairly dim compared to Sol, which - though John _knew_ it was impossible, but still liked to think it - looked as if it was feeding off of the energy of those other stars, to satisfy itself and keep it bright, to keep it lit, as the beacon of hope for every Human in the galaxy, in the universe, in _existence_.

But John felt lethargy drag at him again, and knew he needed something else to occupy his time otherwise he would simply drop to sleep, and that would be worse than anything. Just as John considered going over the weight of his gun in either hand, since said gun had been given two live ammunition magazines, and three paralyzing paint magazines, and he wanted to get used to the weight, he heard the door behind him creek open.

In an instant, his lethargy was forgotten, his gun was in his hand, and he took two large steps back into the shadows. He suspected some sort of surprise, midnight raid by the Ones, they had done so before on many occasions. However, the figure that showed itself was not a threat, he realized, it was simply Miranda S2-106, who had thankfully come a long way in the last few days, but still held a rebellious air about her that had frequently gotten the exhausted child-soldier into deeper and deeper trouble.

"John?" She whispered.

"What?" Was his response.

"I… Where are you?" She asked, her light voice was thick with her Australian accent.

John hesitated for a moment, before he stepped back into the moons light. Sparta's two moons - one of which actually had its own stellar satellite, giving the moon its own moon - reflected sunlight stunningly, making the night sky - despite it being dark, and only lit by the stars - decently lit up. Miranda closed the door and leaned against it, John could immediately tell from her sagged posture, struggling eyes and slightly vacant stare, she was exhausted; something else seemed to be nagging at her mind however, and most likely it was this that was keeping her from the precious gift that was sleep on planet Sparta.

"What's wrong?" He asked.

"How… How do you live with this?" Miranda asked, "and how aren't you angry? I've cost you meals, sleep, physically _exhausting _work, and you just take it in stride!" She said, John could hear genuine guilt behind her voice. "What makes you all so strong?" She asked.

John had to admit, he hadn't expected the question, nor how suddenly Miranda had asked him of it. If he truly thought about it, he realized quickly how much he _didn't_ think about it. "Us all, or me specifically?" Miranda didn't answer, "Miranda, I've already told you that we're family, and that -"

"I know _that…_ But the last three days… They've been the most exhausting I've ever had… And you've lived like this for _years… _Shouldn't you have… Something inside? Some sort of rage? Here I come, I literally make your hellish life worse, yet none of you have said or done anything except _go _with it!" She interrupted him.

"I can't speak for the others…" John said, walking over to Miranda and sitting down, not as gracefully as he would have wanted, but he was exhausted, the temporary adrenaline rush had long since worn off. "But I know what I'm looking for in this." John felt a confused gaze come from Miranda, and continued, "my mother died when I was young… I think I was six. Doctor Mossy told me that she was killed by aliens, enemies of Humanity." He explained, still remembering with almost perfect clarity the feelings of rage he felt when the auburn-haired doctor had told him of his mother's ultimate fate. "She told me that if I accepted this job… This… Life… I could get revenge on those who killed my mom. So I work through all of this, because I know it's what my mother would have wanted. She would have wanted me to become strong, in order to protect those who can't protect themselves. To _kill_ those who prayed upon the weak and innocent."

"But… What happens after you've had your revenge?"

"I keep fighting. It will be all I know."

"And if you can't fight anymore?"

"I'll be useless and I will die." John stated, his face straight and his tone unchanging, he could tell from the momentary silence that Miranda only now knew he _meant_ everything he was saying.

"But… You aren't fighting _now…_" Miranda pointed out.

"_Now,_ I'm learning how to fight." John pulled out his pistol, and flipped on the safety. "This, is simply a tool." He extended his arm and looked down the sight, "an infant could use it. Thus is how easy we have made our killing tools." He paused, and then pulled his arm back, "but simply because we can use it doesn't mean we know how. That is what the SIGMA Twos are for. We spend our entire lives learning how to use these… Like the Spartans of ancient Greece, the second our hands touch one of these weapons we know exactly what it is, where it goes, how to use it, and how best to _kill_ someone with it."

"Do you regret any of this?" Miranda asked, looking around.

"How can I regret the only life I've had?" John asked, looking into Miranda's deep blue eyes.

Miranda was silent for several minutes. John felt sleep drag at him again, just as Miranda piped back up. "Why do you stay outside?" She asked, "I asked Ducard during lunch… He said he would allow you to stay inside, where it's warm." She mentioned, offhandedly.

John grinned, "can you see them?"

Miranda's eyes widened, "who?" She sounded worried, as she reached for the gun strapped to her belt.

"The other Twos." Said John, "when we aged, and we became more used to our training programs… We elected days, secretly, of course. Essentially, they would be our days to stay outside for an extra fifteen minutes, enjoy the night air and think to ourselves." John looked up to the stars. "I like to look at the stars."

"Why?"

"Because they make me feel small." He said, "you've heard the phrase… You're one in a million?" Miranda nodded, "well… There are billions of stars in this galaxy. And if even half of them had sentient life orbiting around them, that's _trillions_ upon _trillions_ of people. So mathematics would dictate that if you're one in a million, there are hundreds of _billions_ of people out there, just like you." He explained, "I look to the stars to realize that I'm not alone. That there's an entire galaxy… An entire universe out there, with hundreds of billions of people just like me… Just waiting to be fought."

"Hundreds of billions of children who'd had their lives stolen so they could fight in an army they knew little about?" Miranda sounded incredulous.

"Hundreds of billions of children who'd had their childhoods stolen, for whatever reason, and chose to fight so other children wouldn't feel the same thing." John said sagely.

The two were silent for several minutes. John enjoyed Miranda's company, it helped keep him awake. Unfortunately for him, silence festered lethargy, but Miranda seemed to sense when he was at the edge of his energy. "I'm one of those children… You know." She said, bringing John back from the brink.

"Well, you're one of us." John responded, offhandedly.

"No… Not exactly." She said, shaking her head. "I'm… You know of Henry Lawson?"

"Can't say that I do." John skipped mentioning that the only aspects of modern life in the Galactic society were the roles of its myriad militaries.

"Well… He's my father… But not in the sense that he had me birthed through the same way your mother had you." Miranda began, "my father… Wants a dynasty. An entire generation of perfect children, modeled after his genetics. So I was… Well… Grown in a tube." She explained, aware that her story was enrapturing the child-turned-teen-soldier. "Everything about me, my Father had manipulated to be… Essentially, perfect. My voice, my body, my genetics, my looks and intelligence… Everything about me was manufactured to be perfect beyond recognition… And I've tried… _God_ I've tried." She said, "but nothing is good enough for him." She stated, bitterly. "This one time, I came home from school with a silver trophy from a quiz bowl, at school. My father took one look at it, and said 'we don't celebrate imperfection in this house', broke the trophy, and threw it away. 'You can do _better.'_ he told me… And I wanted to… I wanted to hear him say he was proud of me, and I thought that knowledge, a golden trophy, was my ticket to it." She explained.

"But?"

"But after studied for a year, got _perfect_ grades in school, and studied literally everything they had put on the bowl before, and predicted what would come next, and after I destroyed the next year's competition like a Dreadnought could destroy a boat, my father took one look at my gold trophy… And simply nodded." She said, "no 'Good Job', no 'I'm proud of you Miranda'… Just a simple nod, before he walked off and left me to my thoughts." She explained, "even before then, we'd been growing apart but... you could say… After that was when everything fell apart... It just snowballed into this."

"So how did you land here?" John asked.

Miranda smiled, "he's been trying on his own, to create a perfect little soldier. I'm perfect in just about everything else I've done: School work, extra curricular activities, artwork, music, singing… Anything I do I do better than anyone I do it with. But my father wanted something more, so he tried to turn me into a miniature soldier." She paused, her smile turning from one of mire, to one of simple sorrow. "I cried for days after my first Paralyzing Paint match. I tried to be better, but I never could. Eventually, I started rebelling, he and I both knew I wasn't going to be what he wanted me to be…" She looked away from the sky to John, "so this was his answer. If he couldn't 'coddle' and 'raise' me to be obedient, if he couldn't spoil me, he would have those who knew how to train, force-feed, and if need be _beat_ obedience into children. He spoiled me when I was younger, he sees now that won't work, so now I'm here, his backup option."

"So because you pissed off your father, the man who is supposed to love you more than anyone else in the galaxy… He sent you to hell." John summarized, to receive a shaky-lipped nod from the girl next to him.

"The worst part?" Said Miranda, "I feel more loved here, where my only guardian figure is on the verge of beating me every time I open my mouth, where my 'family' is on the verge of separating me from their lives every time I talk to the guardian… Where I've had to do the toughest work of my life… Than I've ever felt at home, with my father." John noticed a tear drop down her eye. "I don't want to go back."

"I'm going to stop you right there, because you are _not_ staying here." John stated firmly.

"Then where will I go?" She asked, "I've no one else. The only person outside of my house that I can trust, is you, seeing as how most everyone here don't hold me in high regard." She said.

"Look around." John said, as he could see the first bright red flashes of sky over the horizon, "ask around. Dig through your Dad's files. You'd be amazed what you can find if you just keep looking." He said, with a deep breath, and an equally deep sigh. "You should head back inside."

"Thank you for talking to me…" Miranda said, "I appreciate it."

"Thanks for keeping me awake." John returned, with a grin.

John waited for a moment, after Miranda entered the barracks, before he hauled himself back to his feet and resumed his vigil. Neither of them knew, that orbiting hundreds of kilometers above the planet, a satellite with a foreign Artificial Intelligence had been listening to the entire conversation with barely contained interest.

_I must show this to Mister McGraw…_ Were the first thoughts that ran through its mind, before the AI zoomed through the Alliance Satellite network to return to its creator.

* * *

><p><em>"Mister McGraw…"<em> Softly said the synthetic voice of an Artificial Intelligence construct, as its golden-orange holographic form formed into existence, the spectacle appearing like dust, swirling in a nonexistent wind, the particles eventually settling together in a distinctly Human shape. The AI's hologram was a softly glowing golden-orange, and had the appearance of a woman in her thirties, her long hair brought up into a tight bun, her lighter-orange lab coat neatly buttoned up, and her jeans ever so slightly baggy. She had a set of glasses upon her face that, despite all logic, the programming allowed to slip every so often, which forced her to 'push' them back up the bridge of her nose.

"We are _not_ starting this day with the sleeping joke." The tired lump of bed sheets and blankets in the middle of a king-sized mattress groaned, his voice muffled by the blankets that were tightly wound around and tangled about him. "What do you want?"

"I have information about Miranda Lawson." Said the AI.

Silence, for several moments, before the mass underneath the blankets began shifting. The AI took this as her cue to bring the lights in the room. The room was lit up dimly by sterile white lighting, the room's walls were covered in pictures and paintings of various topics, many of which being antimatter/matter annihilation, but several being of the Second Contact War. There was one section of the wall which held a picture of the man of the room, one Christopher McGraw, holding and firmly shaking the hand of the then-Alliance Director for Affairs, Jason Whyte, as the man who had engineered Mankind's most destructive energy weapon received a medal from the man who had been the driving force for Mankind's sudden and explosive entrance into galactic affairs.

Aside from the paintings on the walls, there was a desk in one corner of the room, upon which papers _filled_ with notes and math equations were laid. As well, there were dozens of tablets, each one marked with a single strip of masking tape, upon which a word or series of words was written, which denoted the tablet computer's purpose. To the desk's left there was a large glass cabinet, within which there were over a dozen model ships and antique weapons. The ships included an Alliance Dreadnought, with its cross Orbital Defense Platform/Warship aesthetic design, an Alliance Flagship, with its heavily armored submarine design, and a Turian Dreadnought, its sleek, almost aerodynamic triangular design in stark contrast to the bulky, and blocky designs of the Alliance ships next to it. The guns included a World War Three-era M4A1, which McGraw had meticulously located parts for so he could build it up to fire, an ancient M1911 pistol, also refurbished to fire functionally, and several of the Standard Weapons made famous by their use during the Second Contact War.

The Standard Infantry Rifle was much akin to the cancelled XM8 rifle in the pre-World War Three Earth. The difference between the two was that this rifle was a lot more sleek, and just a slight bit longer, by about three to five inches. It also held dozens of places upon which attachments could be loaded, such as a suppressor, a laser sight, a red dot site or a tactical scope, and a rail on the bottom of the gun's barrel that allowed for bipod or grip attachments, or simple grenade launchers. The other weapons included a Standard Infantry Pistol, a World War Two era M14, which he unfortunately couldn't refurbish yet, and a simple Kukri knife, made unique by the materials McGraw had forged it with: Tuning Metals.

Tuning Metals were a uniquely and _exclusively_ Alliance creation. The Tuning Gates, known by the Galaxy at large as Mass Relays, were made of a nigh-impregnable and nearly indestructible material that, at the time of their finding, had been deigned 'Tuning Metals'. McGraw had been the one to suggest using Warp Technology to break off a chunk of a Relay to study the metal; after the attempt had been successful, the Alliance had been able to break down the metal and program it into their material synthesizers. Thus, they could make tons and tons of Tuning Metals out of other, appropriate massed materials. Tuning Metals, however, were expensive to make, more so than Antimatter and Adamantine, and ships armored by Tuning Metals were even more expensive, thus only Flagships were made with Tuning Metals. _One_ dreadnought existed that was made by Tuning Metals, the _Beautiful Annihilation,_ which served as the de-facto flagship for the entire Alliance Navy, due to its iconic image. It was with the Sol Fleet, and still in use, despite its age, there were many debates upon whether or not the ship should be decommissioned and made into a Museum ship.

McGraw finally disentangled himself from the blankets on his bed, and scratched his head with his right hand. His thick, slightly curly, and definitely unkempt hair was tangled heavily, but a quick swipe of his organic hand undid that quickly enough. His deep blue eyes stared at the metallic port on his left shoulder, upon which he customarily integrated his own, personal, self and custom-made cybernetic limb replacement.

"What's Miranda up to?" Chris asked, "heard her Dad sent her to Sparta."

_"Yes."_ Said the AI, Gladys, _"and it appears that she does not want to go back to her father."_ The AI stated bluntly.

Chris looked at the hologram, which 'floated' in the air in front of him. He blinked once, then twice, and broke the still silence with a simple, "what?"

_"Your predictions were right, just too late." _

"You mean I overestimated how long it'd take for her to decide to break out?" Chris repeated, "well, kudos for me, then." He chuckled, as he hauled himself out of bed, and grabbed his cybernetic arm. With a slight 'hiss', it clicked onto the metallic port on his shoulder and clamped itself shut. A moment passed as it interfaced with his body and connected with the nanomachines in his mind, and after a soft 'beep', it signified he was ready to use it.

The shirtless McGraw then picked up his metallic walking stick, and exited his room, said cane making a soft 'click click click' with each step. The room he was staying in was actually just a small part of his own, custom-designed but professionally built, star ship. It was no where near as long as an Alliance frigate, which was near five hundred meters long, but his own quarter of a kilometer long ship was good for what he needed. His ship had space enough for him to work, and an engine powerful enough to power its defenses, those being a civilian-grade Rail Gun (modified by McGraw to fire much more powerfully), and the thickest energy shields the man could create.

As he walked through the ship, his AI lighting it up as he did so, he continued the conversation. "So what do we know and how do we know it?" He asked, making his way to his mess hall.

Upon entering, he saw a robot - a civilian model, one that anyone could pick up in a hardware store - up making his breakfast. The robot, piloted by Gladys, was what spoke to him. "I was in one of our sixteen satellites above Sparta." It said, "and I happened to be watching -"

"You were stalking them."

"I happened to be watching John S2-15, Doctor Mossman's recruit -"

"You were _definitely_ stalking them." McGraw chuckled, as he sat down at his table.

"And I heard him speaking to miss Lawson."

"And?"

"She explained to him that, at its core, she didn't want to go back to her father, but knew she had no where else _to_ go."

The gears in McGraw's bio-mechanically enhanced brain were already turning. "When was the last time I traveled to Sparta, Gladys?" He asked.

"Six weeks and twelve days, since yesterday." The robot responded, as it walked forward with McGraw's meal: powder-made pancakes with a side of dehydrated, 'tactical' bacon.

"And how far away are we, from the planet?" He asked.

"We are currently in orbit above the Salarian homeworld Sur'Khesh." The robot supplied, as it sat down to watch its organic creator satisfy his body's needs. "That would make the distance from our position to planet Sparta…" An instant's pause was all the AI needed to make the calculations, "three point six kiloparsecs… Rounded up."

"Should take about a week, then… Maybe less." He paused, "what's the Alliance Standard? What's the Spartan Standard?" He asked, tearing into his food.

"Alliance Standard Time is eleven thirty in the morning. Spartan Solar Time relevant to John S2-15 would be around five in the morning." Gladys supplied.

"Just enough time to warn the SIGMAs." Chris chuckled, despite the fact that _everyone_ who he told of it, told him it was downright suicidal, he simply loved messing with the Alliance's Super Soldiers, watching them stutter and bumble and get pissed off was oddly satisfying, for the scientist. "Send a message to Director Trent, tell 'im we're commandeering the SIGMAs come…" He looked up and sighed as he decided on a date, "Saturday, the eighth."

"Message away."

"And set up the comm room, I'd like a chat with Timmy." He said, finishing his food and getting to his feet.

"The Illusive Man is currently awaiting your arrival in the communications room."

_Asshole always was a 'one ring' kind of guy…_ Thought Chris, as he made his way through the ship. Ninety seconds passed as he walked to the elevator, took it one floor down, and then made his way into the communications room.

Inside the communications room was a deep, dark black void. It was by McGraw's personal choice it was like this, it wasn't a conference room, it was a holographic communications room, that could connect to anywhere in Alliance/Citadel space, and suffer a shorter time lag the closer the targeted location was. Jack Harper, his friend, co-worker, and 'CEO' of an organization the two had founded several years ago, had his space station an undisclosed amount of light-years away, but from this distance communications would suffer a three second time-lag. Chris entered the room, and immediately the dark void turned into a veritable solar system.

In the middle of the room, the brightest hologram was the vid-screen, showing Harper's upper half, waiting for McGraw to begin speaking. Orbiting the 'sun', were dozens of other holograms, ranging from documents, to other quick-communications-contacts, to simple muted news programs.

McGraw made it to the middle of the room, and sat in his chair. He looked at the holographic vid-screen, floating in the middle of the air and providing the role of the 'sun' in the 'solar system' his communications room had made. Harper was in his thirties, much like McGraw, but the signs of aging hadn't even thought to affect the two, who looked no older than twenty five. Harper's dark brown hair and slightly tan skin conflicted heavily with his cybernetic, steely-blue eyes, which seemed to pierce into McGraw's blank soul.

"I call you 'Timmy', right?" Was what McGraw chose to greet his long-time friend with.

_"It's for security reasons… Though I can proudly say we've decided upon your name."_ Said Harper.

"If it's 'The Executive Man', I will robo-slap you into next week." McGraw warned, with a lopsid grin.

_"We felt 'The Intuitive Man' would suit your… Mindset best."_

"Really? TIM and TIM?" McGraw laughed, "why not just go by tweedle-dee, and tweedle-dum?"

_"I digress, would you rather another name?"_ Harper emphasized 'another', McGraw - true to form - was very picky with his code-name, and had gone through at least a dozen before, this one being the thirteenth.

"It's better than 'The Alpha Man'… Who the hell made _that_ one up? Pressley?"

Harper was silent, once again showing his ever-present patience for McGraw's short-mindedness. _"Intuitive Man it is. So what did you call me for?"_ He asked, lighting a cigar as he did so.

"You keep smoking those, they'll give you cancer one day." McGraw said quickly, before he brushed off the unimportant topic, "anyways, you know who Miranda Lawson is?"

_"Yes… The young woman you've been watching closely for years now, and yet you haven't provided any of your field agents with a reason as to why."_ McGraw could see Harper's hands scroll through holograms off-camera, he was no doubt pulling up the teen's files.

"Well, you're about to figure out why." Said Chris, before he sat back in his chair. "This girl's 'father' - if you could even refer to him as such - was a lot like the late McGraw Bastard, err, I mean, senior." He explained, "he wanted the perfect kid. But instead of taking the route my dear old dad did, and injecting millions of colonies of self-replicating nanomachines to boost her intelligence and rot her attachment centers, Henry went a different route."

_"What did he do?"_ Asked Harper.

"He _grew_ her." Said McGraw, "and those were his words. These are the words from the man's mouth itself, I've pretty much fooled him into thinking I'm his friend. There's a _reason_ I've dedicated all my resources into infiltrating the Lawson household, after all."

_"I still do not understand why… By all accounts, the girl should be living a far better life than yours."_

"But she _isn't."_ Said McGraw, "Lawson wanted a dynasty of genetically, physically, and mentally superior Human children. Hell, he just wanted _superior_ kids, didn't matter how. Miranda was the second one that worked long-term, so he's pretty much been spoiling the kid ever since she left the synthetic womb."

"Who was the mother?" Harper sounded interested.

"Didn't have one. Home grown, through and through." McGraw explained, "but the thing is, I can see a lot more of me in her, than simply comparable origin stories."

Harper leaned forward, giving McGraw the idea that he was finally finding the same line of thought as him. _"What do you mean?"_

"My intelligence is my best asset." McGraw flicked his head a few times to make his point, "but my intelligence is synthetic. I did the math, I wouldn't simply lose my brain power in six and a half months, if I removed them all, I'd turn into a _vegetable."_ He explained, but he held up a hand to stop Harper from interjecting, "Miranda's IQ is already one hundred one, and she's only thirteen. Mine has leveled out the last few months at six twelve, but it's been a long while since I checked last." He explained, "she has the potential to _be,_ what I can be_come."_

_"What is the difference?"_

"When she hits my age, she'll most likely be smarter than me. She just won't realize it."

_"That is over twenty years from now, realize."_ Harper warned, _"that is a large gamble."_

"But it's one I'm willing to take. My skill is with the machines in my brain, constantly boosting and constantly allowing it to evolve." McGraw said, "my IQ will probably, if my math is right and if previous growth patterns continue, _maximize_ itself at around nine hundred fifty." Harper nodded, but knew better than to cut off his friend, "hers, without my synthetics, could easily breach a thousand, and she could still retain the Humanity I don't have."

_"How is that possible?"_ Harper asked, _"your nanomachines enhance your brain power at a near constant rate, always allowing it to evolve as you age. But at the cost of you being unable to become emotionally attached to things."_ Harper didn't miss McGraw's grin at that, and made a mental note to inquire about that later, _"what makes the girl different?"_

"Her father based her mind around _my_ father's machines, and SIGMA One augmentations."

Harper's eyes widened, _"she's a 1.5?"_

"No." McGraw said quickly, "her muscles are naturally stronger than a Human's, but not SIGMA Strong. I said _based_ upon." He explained, "but SIGMAs, both the Ones and the Twos, get brain-enhancing augmentations. To dramatically improve their reaction times, increase their intelligence, the works. My nanomachines constantly evolve my brain and _always_ allow me to learn, absorb, and master new things, but at the cost of emotional attachments. Lawson's scientists fused the two, and managed to remove the side effects."

Harper was catching on, he nodded as he sat back. _"You're saying that the girl…"_

"Despite how imbecilic it sounds, has an organic version of my nanomachines. Given to her by the fusion between the nanomachines and the organic half of the SIGMA Brain Amps." McGraw paused, and then summed it all up, "a _perfect_, ever-evolving, ever-increasing, ever-_perfecting_ brain, with no side effects."

_"How on Earth is that possible?"_ Harper asked.

McGraw smiled, "that's what I've been spending years figuring out. I've suspended work on my _Crucible_, to figure this out."

Harper paused a moment, lowering his gaze as he connected the dots. A full minute passed before he looked back to McGraw, _"you wish to recruit her."_ He stated.

"I want to do more than that, Jack." Said McGraw, "I want to give her the choice her father didn't. The choice _my_ father didn't. The choice she deserves, and the choice I can't make."

_"What if she refuses?"_ Asked Harper.

McGraw smiled, "hey…" His smile turned into a lopsid grin, "I never said I wouldn't stack the odds in our favor. Listen to this…"

* * *

><p><em>"We have breaking news!"<em> Came the voice of an anchorwoman, interrupting the newest episode of the Alliance-wide television hit, Seeding Life.

"Oh come on!" Angrily shouted Jorell'Sahn nar Mindoir, as he sat in his father's newest apartment on the Alliance colony of Elysium. "Damn it, I liked that show!"

"Oh please." Came Jorell's Human friend, Tom Benthan. "You only watch it because of that Human actress, whatsername."

"And you _don't_?" Asked the chuckling Jorell.

"No, I watch it because this is the closest I can get to 'classic' sci-fi, without watching those cheesy-as-hell twentieth/twenty first century flicks." Tom said, "you, you're a colony kid, this is probably the coolest thing you've _ever_ seen!" The two laughed.

It had been many years since Jorell could actually call himself a Mindoir resident, but it had been longer still since he called himself an Elysium colonist. During those years, Jorell, now fifteen, had matured into a general 'everyman' in the Alliance. His best claim to fame was his mother's political ties, and his father's status in the Alliance Marines. Jorell, six months from being given QIS 612, the medical nanomachine treatment that supplemented every Quarian's immune system, had matured into a strong young man. His body had aged into a physical form more fit for manual labor, as opposed to the leaner body types that represented the more intellectual of his species. His eyes were a deep, dark green, which, unlike the rarity of the color in modern Humans, was a very normal shade for Quarians, and his hair was cut short, almost like a Human 'crew cut'. The only reason he or his friend were even able to see his hair, at this point in time, was because Jorell - like his mother and father before him - only ever took his mask and helmet off at home, or for special occasions outside of home. His suit was a forest shade of green, with a darker shade for the skin-like rubber parts.

Ever since the Quarians had joined up with the Alliance, following what the Humans called the Second Contact War, and the Galaxy knew as the Human-Turian War, the Quarians were able to be a lot more creative and free with their technology. Quarian bio-suits now had a much more vast technological suite, and with the advent of Human/Quarian technological fusions, were easily twice as advanced as they were before. Quarian Omni-tools and Human smart-watches were oftentimes built into the suits, as well as having Human Augmented Reality technologies built into Quarian face-masks. Human energy shielding also made the Quarian Marines' armor much more effective, and when the two species had put their heads together, they were able to make the technology that allowed Powered Infantry Assault Armor's under suits to grow into wounds, do the same for suit-breeches. Should a Quarian suffer a suit puncture, the skin-like rubber parts of the suit could self-repair and seal the damage in minutes, allowing whatever damage that had been done to be minimal at best, and slightly alarming at worst, and that was for Quarians who opted out of QIS 612.

With QIS 612, Quarians had the immune system they could only have ever _dreamed_ of, centuries ago. They had an immune system comparable to an average Human, and could walk around with others, with no mask required. Quarians hadn't done away with suits entirely, because of this, they were too ingrained in their societies, and QIS 612 couldn't be given to anyone under fifteen, to give their immune systems _some_ time to build themselves. Many Quarians did walk amongst Humans with no mask, but a majority stuck to old roots and stayed in their suits, except when home amongst family, loved ones, or close friends, it was still considered a mark of ultimate trust and affection to remove one's mask to allow someone to see a Quarian's face.

Jorell, for instance, had only allowed one person outside of his family, his best friend, Tom, to see his face. Said face was currently growing a wide grin, as he silently laughed, "oh shut up, when the apocalypse comes, and I'm out there farming my way to godhood, we'll see who's laughing."

_"Rebel forces -" _Said the TV, cutting into the two's conversation, _"have just made an attempt at besieging an Alliance farm world."_

"Speak of the devil!" Tom said offhandedly.

_"Due to the colony's independence from the Alliance Parliament, the colony had little defenses in the way of naval ships. However they had a militia, which was quickly overwhelmed by Rebel forces." _The anchorwoman reported. _"However, the Alliance Navy and Marine Corps quickly responded to distress signals, and after a six hour confrontation on land and in the void, said colony was quickly liberated, and the colonial governor made the executive decision to allow the colony to be annexed by the Alliance. Relief efforts are currently underway, as prisoners are rounded up, disarmed, and sent to Perol."_

"Wonder if your Dad was there?"

"Doubt it." Said Jorell, running his three-fingered hand through his hair, "last I heard he was up in orbit." He pointed to the roof, "said he might get called out to one of the more heavily contested areas, following an OD3 strike." He mentioned.

The Gaian Rebellion was a relatively new war, in which the Humans and Quarians of the Human Systems Alliance found themselves entrenched. Ever since the former Alliance Director for Affairs, Jason Whyte, had made the decision to split the Humans and Quarians from the galaxy proper, and form a sovereign nation of unified governments and planets, under the flag of the Alliance, a small faction of Humans who directly opposed the decision quickly gained power. Several years passed as tensions between the Alliance and the 'Children of Gaia' increased dramatically, until finally - and suddenly - in 2211, the Rebels attacked with an enormous battle fleet. As it turned out, they had spent several days, post-Second Contact War, looting and proliferating the naval battlefields. Thousands of Alliance Naval vessels and a vast majority of Turian Combat Vessels were stolen and gone, but the Alliance had simply written them off as lost to the hazards of the Milky Way. Furthermore, the Rebels had been spending the years in which they'd been increasing tensions between the two factions, conquering independent colonies and brainwashing their denizens into following their lines of thought. The result was a workforce willing to build ships and arm soldiers, an army willing to fight so the Alliance would merge with the Citadel Council, and a navy that was essentially the only one with the tech to face the might of the Alliance Navy.

For years the Alliance had been bogged down in an intense guerilla war with the rebels. Planets were generally 'cleaned' of rebel rule in months, but the Rebels themselves simply went to ground and continued the war with terrorist attacks, which greatly slowed Alliance Progress in completely liberating and cleaning Rebel worlds. The Alliance Parliament knew that they had to hit the Rebels where it hurt to win the war, and run the risk of turning their leader - who only went by 'The Ghost' - into a martyr, but they simply didn't know where the Rebel's primary planet of operations lied. It was a massive galaxy, after all, and they ran the risk of having the Rebels be led from a space-station in the middle of nowhere space, which was an even worse prospect.

Jorell's family hadn't escaped being affected by the Rebellion, much as they wanted to. Most primary conflicts were conducted by the Alliance Marine Corps, before the Army came in to establish their foothold and continue the war. Jorell's father had seen action on a dozen fronts, but had fortunately avoided becoming one of the 'poor' Marines who were stationed planet-side, and began suffering from what they started calling 'dry feet'.

"How have we not found that Ghost guy, yet?" Tom asked.

"Because the guy's done what no other Human seems to be capable of -" Jorell didn't miss the grin on Tom's face, "- he learned from what other Humans have done. He saw that every 'great terrorist' gave himself a face. A name. They showed the world who they were, and that was enough to find them. So Ghost isn't showing anyone, anything. The Alliance spies in the faction have even said that he doesn't show his face to his own _lieutenants!"_

"Wait, we've got spies there?" Jorell nodded, "and we haven't whacked him yet?!"

"They want to catch him." Jorell explained, "and bring him in. Discredit him in front of billions of people. Otherwise, they'll just martyr him."

"Makes sense…" Tom nodded.

_"No news as to the disappearance of Human ships along the outer colonies."_ The anchorwoman continued, _"Alliance officials are advising against conventional travel in those areas, and have assumed that Rebel Forces have picked up patrols. If at all possible, Warp Transit should be conducted in the outer and middle colonies. The Department of the Navy has said that they will be sending out reconnaissance fleets to search for the missing ships, but no solid word yet on who has been taking ships, and why."_


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4:

* * *

><p><em>War is the only place where we can be complete. Battle can be the only activity where excellence can be meaningful. Do not believe that you can be scholar, a philosopher, or a leader of men. You are a warrior. When you are not inflicting death, you are not justifying your life.<em>

**_— Daenyathos, "War Incarnate", Warhammer 40,000_**

* * *

><p>August 6th, 2215<p>

* * *

><p>Weeks had passed since Miranda-S2-106 had joined the ranks of SIGMA Delta Company. It had admittedly taken her a few days to realize that to even <em>think<em> of disobeying, in any possible way, would be to invite massive workloads onto everyone in the Company, and double that onto John, who, aside from his friends Justin and George, was really the only one who had warmed up to her immediately. Certainly, after she'd been forced to work alongside Delta Company for so long, they all came to regard her as the 'de-facto little sister', despite the fact that none of them were more than a year older than the other. The pep-talk John had given her had also helped to set her mind straight, and now, mere days before she was set to leave, a somber attitude was beginning to settle upon the Company.

No SIGMA had _ever_ 'left' the program, not a I, not a II, no one. Many I's had retired, definitely, but if they ever were needed - like some had been during the Mercenary wars - they would not hesitate to pick up arms and fight, but no one ever actually _left_ the Program. Miranda would be making history in more ways than one, both being the first female SIGMA II, and the first one to ever truly _leave_ the Program.

Currently, Delta Company was enjoying their Saturday, their _one,_ bi-monthly day off, or what they called the 'McGraw Day', in the mess hall. John, Justin, George, and Miranda were chatting at their usual table, when the four heard the telltale signs of commotion. It had been near instant, and nearly universal: when the doors opened, everyone got to their feet, and everyone - Miranda included - almost instantly reached for their gun, expecting some sort of training exercise or an ambush. But when they saw the five and a half foot tall man, with his cybernetic arm, his jet black T-Shirt, dark blue jeans, metal cane, and broad smile, everyone relaxed, save for Miranda, who only became confused.

"I…" She looked around, for the first time in weeks she saw smiles on everyone's faces, as they slowly swarmed the Human scientist. "John, what's going on?" She asked, confusedly.

"_That _is Christopher McGraw." John supplied, a faint grin playing on his own features.

"So?" She didn't have to show confusion at the fact that McGraw was here, since he and her father had begun hanging out, she'd all but learned that whenever something was odd with the Alliance, McGraw could be found there, cracking inappropriate jokes at inappropriate times.

"He _made_ the program."

"And?" Miranda asked, her dark blue eyes filled with confusion, "shouldn't you hate him?" Something wasn't clicking for her.

"Not when he's essentially the only Human being out there that treats us like… Well… Humans." George said, before he smacked Justin on the back and the two strode over to the crowd, they could hear McGraw's loud, boisterous laughter.

"He's pretty much our father figure, Miranda." John explained, as he nodded over to the area where the more patient ones were sitting down, and waiting for an opportunity to speak to the man. "He might have put us through this, but he said he knows what it's like to have a hellish childhood. And _every time,_ he apologizes to us for this."

_"Him?!"_ Miranda didn't believe it, she remembered the conversations McGraw and her father would have. Her father would - obviously without knowing she was around the corner, listening in - suggest such outrageously immoral business and social opportunities, experiments, and so on, and McGraw would only go on to propose things that made even her _father_ blush. He was smart, there was _no_ doubt in her mind about that, but she didn't see him at all as a caring person, that could win the affection of child soldiers, child soldiers he had, in essence, _created,_ even!

"Yeah, him." John said, after the two sat down. "See that?" He pointed over to the long-haired scientist, who was addressing each and every SIGMA Teen by name, commenting on how they'd grown, asking them how they were, and answering _any_ question they would give him. "He's taken the time to memorize each and every one of us. Not just the eighty in Delta Company, but the six hundred twelve SIGMAs in the S2 program." He stated.

"He knows the names of _all_ of the - you?" Miranda looked perplexed, she didn't believe it.

"Yup." Said John, "that's not the only reason we respect him, though."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing earns a SIGMA's respect like going through what they do." John said, "twenty two ten. He told us then, and apparently someone in the Echo Company broke into tears, started crying 'why did you do this to us?'… He was angry. He wasn't the first one to resent McGraw, of course, but at that point we only liked him because he gave us our days off." John explained, "but seeing that kid cry did something to McGraw. A month later, he took a break from everything. And not just a few weeks, he wasn't seen or heard from for an entire _year._" He paused, "want to know what he did?"

"What?"

"He went through what we did." He said, "all eight companies of us. He spent a month and a half with everyone. He went through our training, and he didn't do it with his cyber arm, either." John explained, fondly remembering the days when McGraw _himself_ had been chewed out by Ducard. " 'No advantages for me!', he said. And he didn't want any sort of special treatment, either. If he fucked up, he wanted to know just as if we would. It was during that year that, like clockwork, we realized he truly did regret what he's put us through. We really warmed up to him, after that." He explained.

"But…" Miranda obviously knew more about McGraw than these child-soldiers did, "I heard him say it himself. The machines in his brain, that enhance his intelligence… They removed his ability to become emotionally attached to things…" She looked from the distant McGraw, to John, back to McGraw, "so… How?"

"Maybe he sees us as the kids he can't have." Said John.

"Can't?"

"Well, won't." John corrected, "he doesn't want kids… But I think I can tell, we're all he's willing to have… His 'mark on the galaxy'." He chuckled.

"So… You all love him… Because he spends time with you?" Miranda looked at John, she was less confused than before, but still felt like something was missing.

"After he trained with us for that year, he explained to us what we were supposed to be. He didn't bullshit us, he told us straight up what we were, what we were meant to be, and what we were going to become." John explained, " 'Humanity's Protectors', he'd called us. 'Warriors like no other', he'd said we would become. After that, we'd started learning about him, and he us. Eventually, he pretty much became our father." John said, "where Ducard and our instructors would be the immovable object, McGraw would be our focal point. He'll defend us if we need it… Politically, I mean. He _has,_ before, actually. The Alliance was thinking of cutting funding, McGraw himself funded us until he fought for continued federal funding. That earned a lot of points."

Miranda nodded, and nearly jumped when she heard a new, much deeper, but lightened voice enter the conversation.

"Oh yeah! _That_ was fun! I can't believe you _remember_ that, John!" Said McGraw, who loomed over the two.

"Can you honestly say you expected any of us to forget?"

"I can honestly say I thought Ducard'd keep it on the down low." McGraw chuckled, as he sat down on the floor in front of them. He pointed to Miranda, "you. I don't remember seeing you here last time. What the hell, Australia not hellish enough for you? Need something _else_ to try and kill you?"

"Err… What?"

"Why are you here?" He asked slowly, loudly, as the crowd slowly meandered over to them. "Last I remember, you were at your father's mansion in Australia."

"You mean you didn't suggest this to him?" She asked, confrontationally, "apparently you _made_ this program."

She didn't miss John's undertoned whisper, _"thin ice."_ She also didn't miss the accompanying stares she was getting from the other child soldiers.

"No." McGraw said simply, "orphans is the name of the game, here." He explained, "I don't take folks with actual families. Girls too, us guys've got the better build -" Without warning he snapped his fingers, lifted both of his arms, and pointed at George "- _show 'er Georgie!"_ And on that instant's notice, George flexed his developed arms in a classic body-builder's pose. _"haha!"_ He laughed. "See what I mean?" He asked, returning to the casual tone immediately.

"Ignoring that… It was my Father."

"Oh that asshat." McGraw interrupted, with a grin.

"I… confronted him one day."

"You dumbass." He said through barely stifled laughter.

"And next thing I knew I was here."

"Lucky bastard."

"What?"

"Think of it, you've got six hundred twelve brothers willing to get themselves killed for you." McGraw said, no one in the room missed the nods of affirmation from the eighty SIGMA Teens. "If anything, your Dad, in his own stupid way, kind of did you a favor."

"So you seriously had nothing to do with this?" McGraw shook his head, "so how did he know about the program?" That had been one thing she'd always wondered, but hadn't at all been able to figure out. She had tried, once, but she had very nearly been caught by the ever-so-lightly sleeping SIGMA Ones.

"Well, he _funds_ it, doesn't he?" Said McGraw, faking Miranda's accent in a slightly condescending way, "you can't fund a program and not know what it is -" he suddenly dropped the faux accent, "- oh my god, that was more Scottish than it was Australian, wasn't it?" He shrugged, "my apologies."

"My father _funds_ the SIGMA Twos?" McGraw nodded.

"So, let me get this straight. You pissed off Daddy Dearest, and got sent to hell?" McGraw summarized, and when he received a nod from the only female in the room, he nodded too. "Well. That sucks, doesn't it? This permanent?"

"I'm leaving on Tuesday."

"Wow." McGraw looked surprised, "that's a bigger surprise than him sending you here…" He thought for a moment, his eyes darting too and fro as he went over notes and thoughts only he could see. After a moment, he nodded again before he grabbed his metallic cane and hauled himself to his feet. "Now, who wants to know what?" He asked, signaling the 'question time', immediately several dozen hands flew into the air, and several dozen child soldiers began shouting choruses of 'me! Me!'.

* * *

><p>The rest of the day passed by in a blur. McGraw had answered hundreds of questions, told dozens of stories, and filled the SIGMA Teens' heads with so many random facts that some of their minds had considered forgetting their ingrained skills to remember these facts. Of course, that was nearly impossible, the SIGMAs had been taught of battle for so long that to even consider that one could forget their skills would be ridiculous. Eventually though, the day had to end, and Ducard had to come in and round everyone up. The SIGMA II's of Delta Company bid farewell to Christopher McGraw, or, as they preferred to know him, to 'Chris S1-612'. He bid them farewell again, but before he left to visit Echo Company, he pulled Miranda aside to speak with her.<p>

The perplexed Miranda waited to be spoken to, she knew he had a point he wanted to make.

"So when're you planning on busting out?" McGraw asked bluntly.

"Excuse me?" Demanded a bamboozled teenager.

"I know the look in your eye." Stated McGraw, "the look of a child who simply hates their father. I know because I did, I still do, I hope the bastard's rotting in the hell he didn't believe in as we speak." He stated bluntly, "so I'll ask again: When are you planning on leaving him?"

"I…" Stared at him, long and hard. "How do you know I won't stay?"

"Because I have this…" McGraw produced a data-pad, and handed it to Miranda. "For you." He gave it to her, "you open that up when you get back home, then tell me you want to stay." He stated.

"What is it?"

McGraw looked at her for a moment, his goofy façade gone from his face. "Call it… A taste of things to come. You weren't the first." He stated, before he smiled again, patted the teenager on the shoulder, and gave her a quick salute, before he left for his personal shuttle.

That night, as Miranda lay awake in her bunk, her mind was racing. What did McGraw mean, she wasn't the 'first'? What was on the data pad he'd given her? Why had he called it a 'taste of things to come'? Eventually, she simply couldn't hold her curiosity. She could thank her damned father for this, he had instilled within her a constant drive to know _everything_ she was capable of, and this was within her grasp, literally, it was in the footlocker at the foot of her uncomfortable bed. She reached within and removed the data pad, and after she covered herself in the blankets, began reading by its dim, orange light.

The first thing she saw was a message from McGraw. It read:

_You impatient idiot. You opened it before you got home! … Can't say I expected different, I hope this convinces you: I look after my own, even if they've been 'mine' for only a month. _

- Chris.

She rolled her eyes, and scrolled through to the next document.

_Mr. Lawson, _

_As per your request, I have created a condensed summary of the Alison Experience. Hopefully Project Miranda will work out better._

_P.S. - What has your failure said about your goals? Think about this before you 'delete' another one._

_- Jason McGraw._

Miranda could feel her heart begin to race. What was the 'Alison Experience'? Why did the correspondence make reference to the 'Miranda' Project? Was that the project that had birthed her? What did she not know? Eyebrows crunched together in a confused gesture, she continued reading.

_July 14__th__, 2184: Dynasty 01 is born. Named 'Alison', birth time: 9:36:19 Pm, Alliance Standard Time. Birth Weight: 6 ibs, 12 ounces. _

_October 14__th__, 2184: Alison speaks first words, exactly two weeks before her first unassisted steps. Words: Father._

_(Journal Entry October 14__th__, 2184: _

_Alison spoke for the first time today. Her mind has developed fantastically, I shall begin speech lessons immediately, as brain scans show her Broca's Area and Wernicke's Area are both at least twice as far along as any normal child of her age._

_If you are reading this after she becomes the Director for Affairs, all I shall say to you Jason McGraw is genetic_s can_ and _will_ beat machinery, every time. _

_Journal Entry End)_

_December 25__th__ 2184: Alison, capable of basic speech and understanding, shows glee at the prospect of Christmas. When given a choice between an Abacus, a Doll, a toy gun, and a book, she chooses the doll._

_Henry noted: This shows me that she is more social minded than scholarly minded. He then proceeded to give her the book, confusing the child. _

_July 14__th__, 2185: Alison, now one year old, is capable of speech on the level of a toddler and is perfectly able to walk on her own. She shows great aptitude for mathematics and language skills, and has shown skill in speaking English, and German. Henry forced her tutors to switch to Spanish, given its much greater prominence in Alliance Space. One tutor questions the morality of forcing such a young child through such advanced teachings, the tutor was promptly fired._

_August 18__th__, 2191: Alison, ten years old, shows great desire to enter public schooling. Outright denied by her father._

_(Journal Entry August 18__th__ 2191:_

_The Tantrum was legendary. A perfect ten year old can, indeed, throw a perfect tantrum. It did not change anything, and she has been grounded for six days._

_Journal Entry End.)_

_July 14__th__ 2195: Alison, now fourteen, begins to question her father himself, as she learned more about who and what she is. Rebellious tendencies soon begin._

_(Correspondence July 19__th__ 2195:_

_Lawson,_

_She will find out._

_She will rebel._

_If you cannot appease her, consider a Plan B._

_- McGraw._

_Correspondence End.)_

_July 15__th__ 2195: Project Miranda begun._

Miranda's heart was hammering in her chest, as she tore her eyes away from this data-pad. Her hands were shaking, and her eyes were wide, despite her desperate urge to shut them. What did this all mean? There was a Lawson child _before_ her? Why hadn't her father ever told her?!

Unable to contain herself, Miranda looked back to the dull orange glow of the data pad and continued reading.

_August 19__th__, 2201: _

_(Journal Entry August 19__th__ 2201:_

_This is just what I need. Aliens!_

_Alison's been sneaking out of the house late at night, she's obviously aware I'm planning to replace her, and now I've got to deal with aliens! Those idiots at the Alliance think the 'Batarians' the Quarians mentioned are going to look for us, look for our blood. They want _my_ money, to make more ships and guns! I can afford it, of course, but it's getting harder and harder to explain to the Australian Government why I'm losing millions in addition to the millions I've donated to the Alliance. _

_Damn it, if only Allison had simply obeyed. I could have avoided all of this!_

_I hope Miranda will be better. The AI's are already saying she will be. Twice as perfect as Alison, at __**least. **_

_Journal Entry End)_

_November 6__th__ 2201:_

_(Journal Entry November 6__th__ 2201:_

_WAR! That is the absolute LAST THING I NEED!_

_Alison figured it out yesterday. She knows about Miranda, she saw the data and the cellular structures we've been making. I know she's going to do something about it. Damn it, if only those god damned 'Turians' had come Down Under. I could have written her off as a casualty of war._

_I'll have to be creative._

_Those Terra Firma people may prove to be of use._

_Journal Entry End.)_

_November 8__th__ 2201: Dynasty 01 attempts escape. She purges more than half of the data and destroys the work on Dynasty 02, Project Miranda. She makes an attempt to slay her father, but is executed by the man before she is able._

_(Journal Entry November 8__th__ 2201:_

_Stuff it, McGraw._

_At least my kid tried to do something about me, yours has just been fucking with you._

_I'm still better._

_Miranda will be better.)_

_July 30__th__ 2202: Dynasty 02, Miranda Lawson is born. Birthweight: Seven pounds, Seven ounces. Birth Time: 6:12 AM on the dot._

_(Journal Entry July 30__th__ 2202:_

_I've learned from my last attempt. I will be far more strict this time around. She will not have a _chance_ to rebel against me. _

_McGraw's kid saved the Human Race. Mine damn-well better save the Galaxy.)_

Miranda could hardly breathe. All of this information was frying her brain, her genetically superior, _perfect_ brain. She wasn't the first, that was what McGraw said. How had he known? How had _his_ father known? Why did he tell her? Why had her father _killed_ her predecessor? Why in God's name did she even _have_ a predecessor? Her thoughts were interrupted by the data pad's display going blank for several moments, before a new symbol appeared on the screen. It looked like a diamond, with two shields on either side of it. A message appeared underneath it.

_I won't give you everything, or make it too easy for you, I've got to know you're dedicated, see. Your father has dozens of files on this symbol. You still want to stick with him? Then stop everything you're doing and prepare to live your life as a drone, 'cause that's what you'll be. You really want to leave? Start looking. This symbol is your key to salvation. Use what you've learned this past month, your father really _was_ an idiot for doing this. She only had a month's worth of civilian martial arts and private firing-range marksmanship training. You've been learning martial arts for month_s, _you're biotic, and for the last thirty some-odd days, you've been having Alliance Army martial arts, and the best marksmanship training in Human territory, almost literally beaten into you. You'll do better. _

_You'll save both of you._

_Yes._

_Both._

_- The Intuitive Man._

…

_(I'm sorry, I had to.)_

Miranda's brain was now, officially, overtaxed. Chris's information, this 'Intuitive Man' character, it all simply proved too much for her. With the data pad clutched tightly to her chest, she fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

><p>Miranda's last few days on Sparta, with the SIGMA II's, were largely uneventful. Ducard had chosen to work them all thrice as hard, to send the woman out 'with a bang'. By this time she was more or less used to it, but her discoveries still weighed heavily on her mind. Few noticed anything, aside from her general silence, but fewer still made attempts to discern what was wrong. John had tried, but Miranda had shrugged it off as bad dreams. She hated lying to him, but she didn't want him to know about her - and, apparently, her <em>older sister's<em> past, not yet anyways.

So now, here she was. There was an Alliance shuttle in behind her. The shuttle was an enormous, powerful piece of machinery. It was designed to function as a tilt-wing helicopter, when in terrestrial flight mode, and as a thruster-powered aircraft when in thruster mode. It could, under its own power, reach escape velocity at half of its engines' full power. It was also heavily armed, four rocket pods - two guided and two unguided - on each side of the shuttle, and one heavy machine gun capable of spewing out thousands of rounds per minute.

Miranda was not paying attention to the shuttle, though. She didn't hear its bay-like door open, signifying that the shuttle's pilot was ready for her to get on. She was focused on the eighty-kid long line of SIGMA II's, each making their way to her to give her a firm handshake, a few words of advice, and a farewell. She felt like she had truly bonded with these men, during her month long stay here. Her many drills, training sessions, and education days with them had instilled within her a familial sense the likes of which she had never felt before. She felt happy with them, and she felt deep sorrow leaving now.

John was at the end of the line, his words were quick, as if saying them quickly would help relieve the pain of essentially _losing_ a family member. "It was fun talking to you, Miranda." He said, with a nod, before he extended a hand. Miranda noticed there was an object in it, and instantly took his hand in hers and shook. John's voice was lowered, _"you need anything. Call. I'll bring the cavalry."_ He said.

John hadn't expected Miranda's response, she took him into a tight embrace. The child-soldier couldn't honestly recall the last time he'd been embraced in such a way, and thus had no earthly idea what to do in response, other than to prepare a few choice remarks for Justin and George, who were no doubt doing the same for him.

She let go of him, and with a sad look in her eye said, "I'll miss you." A beat, "all of you."

John grinned, though it didn't reach his eyes. "We'll always be here if you need us." He said, as Miranda was led into the shuttle.

Upon entering it, the bay-like door was shut, and the cabin environmentally sealed, so they could travel through the void safely. Miranda looked out of the window as she heard the heavily muffled 'whomp-whomp-whomp' of the helicopter blades pick up speed. What she saw, as the shuttle lifted off the ground, warmed her heart and brought a tear to her eye.

Assembled in formation, each and every one of the SIGMA II's in Delta Company, all had their hands next to their heads, in a crisp, uniform salute, that wasn't broken until the shuttle itself had disappeared from view entirely. When the helicopter blades retracted into the rotary-engines, and the thrusters fired brightly, the shuttle disappeared from view. As Miranda rocketed towards what would either turn out to be her father's personal ship, or an Alliance vessel on its way to Earth, she couldn't help but begin to weep out of sorrow and of joy. She was extremely sad that she was leaving what essentially equated to her only _true_ family in this galaxy, but happy that they had respect enough for her to honorably send her off.

She knew it would prove a long trip home.


	6. Chapter 5

_Chapter 5_

* * *

><p><em>Humans don't stagnate, they bide their time. Humans don't surrender, they fight. But above all: humans never, ever forget.<em>

_**- Command and Conquer: Retribution**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>2215<strong>_

_The latest Alliance Census arrives._

_The 'Outside Planets', meaning the planets the Human Systems Alliance _hasn't _colonized through use of Mass Relays, number at 30, all of them have a decent Alliance Military Presence, but a vast majority of the 'Pioneer' worlds rely upon militia with civilian-grade weapons technology to do the majority of their defending. Six of the 'Outside Planets' are considered 'Hub Worlds' by Alliance Development standards._

_'__Relay Planets' are the planets colonized within the Mass Relay network. As per the agreements made after the Second Contact War, the Humans colonize one Relay world for every five Outside Planets they claim. __**(It is important to note that the Relay Planets numbered are ones officially recognized by the Human Systems Alliance. It is known that dozens more Human colonies exist, but these are claimed and colonized by pioneers, outside of Alliance Territory, and therefore, not recognized, endorsed, or protected by the Human Systems Alliance)**_

_As of 2215, the number of Relay Planets officially recognized by the Alliance rests at 9, with two of them - Elysium, and Eden Prime - being Hub Worlds, and all of them having a sizeable Alliance Military presence._

_**2216**_

_The Alliance Navy reports sightings of ships, not Human or Quarian in design, in the vicinity of 'Mindoir', the latest addition to the list of Alliance-Recognized Relay Planets._

* * *

><p><em>March 2216<em>

* * *

><p>John-S2-15 was calm. He'd been given relatively simple orders, ever since Mindoir had been colonized as a primarily agricultural world, his superiors in the SIGMA II program had decided that a 'farm war' simulation was in order. Most of the other agricultural worlds were <em>far<em> too developed to have the SIGMA II's come in for a few weeks, and remain under the radar, so Mindoir - a class 4 developing world - was their best choice. Their excuse was fairly straight forward, as well, because the SIGMA I's had forseen the possibility that very few people would understand why there were over half a thousand teenagers running around firing paint at each other. John's excuse was that he was a special Alliance Marine JROTC cadet, a part of a 'special' military academy that few were supposed to know about in the Alliance. Not an _entire_ truth, but not a blatant lie, either. The 'ROTC Cadets' were being 'given' a few weeks to practice farm-warfare, through their favorite 'sport': Paintball. Of course, Paralyzing Paint and Paintball were two completely separate things, but they were similar enough that few would ask questions.

John thought a moment, of the SIGMA II's. It was all he knew, for the last seven years of his life he'd known only war. He'd been trained, alongside thousands of other Second Contact War orphans, since childhood to do one thing, and one thing only: Kill Humanity's enemies. The SIGMA II's were the next generation in Human Super Soldiers, whereas the SIGMA I's were still 'created' and supported, the recruiting for the program had slowed down dramatically, ever since Christopher McGraw convinced the Alliance Parliament to forge the II's. John knew how much sense it made, instead of training adults for several years, the Alliance could train kids for their entire lives, and create undefeatable warriors even _before_ they were augmented. The Alliance saw the sense in it too, and that was why they'd signed the bill; though they knew what they were doing was immoral beyond reason, so the SIGMA II Program's existence was kept beyond top-secret, and only the I's and some select Alliance Officials knew of its existence.

John and the II's were primarily trained on planet Sparta, where the I's - including the legendary John Doe-S1-1 - were trained, but after five years of non-stop training on the same planet, the I's had realized that the SIGMA Teens would need more varied environments for training, so for the last year the II's had branched out, they'd trained on ice-planets, desert-planets, high-gravity worlds, low-gravity worlds, and recently they'd gone to ground on developed, or developing, Alliance planets. John was only 14 now, and he was almost sure he had more combat training than an entire battalion of Alliance Marines, and twice as much experience in varied combat environments. The only thing the SIGMA II's were missing was combat _experience,_ sure they had fired weapons before, they knew how to compensate for recoil for everything from small arms to anti-material weaponry, but none of them had taken a life yet.

"Excuse me, kid." Said a voice, John slowed as he looked to his left, he saw a Human, wearing the obvious attire of a farmer, and in the obvious stance of a drunk, "where's your folks, eh?" The man demanded.

"Away." John said, simply, he took a moment to survey this man. All John would have to do would perform a quick palm-strike to the man's throat, and three swift punches to the stomach before he kneed him in the nose, and the man would be out cold for hours.

"Well… What are you doing out so late?" The man demanded.

"It's morning." John stated, the man looked up to the sky in confusion.

"Then… What's with the shadows on the ground?" The man wondered, pointing to the ground in front of his feet, where the faintest shadow could be seen.

John looked at the shadow the man was pointing at, it was rough, its edges had an angular pattern, and despite the faintness of the shadow, John could tell where it ended exactly. John looked to the sky, it was cloudless, there was nothing that could cast a shadow like that, and the building the man was leaning on shouldn't have cast any shadow in the southern direction, this planet's suns rose in the south, so the building's shadow should be northern-facing.

John and the drunk stood there for a few more moments, before it 'clicked' for the former. He could see, far off in the distance, but obviously close enough to form a shadow, an Alliance ship coming in from orbit.

"You are seeing the shadow cast by an Alliance ship, coming in for a supply run." He said, "I'd recommend going home, sir… You look a little drunk." He pointed out.

"… Heh, must be… See you 'round, kid." Said the drunk, as he hobbled past John.

John shook his head, and continued walking. Mindoir's planetary governor's home was located in this town, and John had lost enough time as it was, getting there.

"Excuse me!" Said an accented voice, from behind John.

_Will I ever be able to take ten steps, without someone interrupting me?_ Wondered John, as he turned around. He saw a small Quarian child, rolling her way to him in a small bubble. John noticed she was still far too young to receive the QIS injections, and still too young to be given her own suit, but from her size, he assumed she had to be getting close to the age where she got her first Child's Suit.

John remembered the classes on the Quarians, ever since they'd integrated with the Alliance, the two had vastly helped to improve the standard of living, of the other. The Humans had practically saved the existence of the Quarian Race, and when the Quarians settled on Human worlds, they began experiencing an enormous population boom as they were no longer limited by ship-space. The Quarians had helped the Humans by improving many assets of modern Human technology. The Quarians had an ingrained ingenuity that still amazed many Human engineers and scientists, and the way they adapted to Human tech and improved upon it in such quick ways was almost blinding for some Humans. The two species had come a _long_ way from being merely 'neighbors' in the same territory, the Quarians were now much more trusting of Human AI technology, and ever since the Humans had solved their 'problem' with their immune systems, they almost trusted the Human race implicitly.

"Err..." He looked at her for a second, used to the expectant glare, but unnused to its source. "What do you... Need? Want?" Asked John, as the small Quarian girl came closer to him.

"I can't find my mommy…" She said, slightly out of breath.

"Okay... Where is she? Where did you see her last?" John asked, as he kneeled down to get below eye-level with the girl. He was slightly intimidating, even for a fourteen year old Human boy, his constant physical training alone made him much more developed than most fourteen year old Humans, and while he wasn't a 'muscle-bound meat head', the training did show, and now that she was up close, the Quarian girl was probably slightly scared by his figure, so John called upon the mental-warfare training he'd been given, he made himself look smaller and weaker than he was, so the girl wouldn't be too scared.

"I… At the shelter…" She mumbled, as she began wringing her fingers together.

John paused, "your mom's at the shelter?" He asked, "why?" if he remembered right, the shelter was made primarily for those who either had no job, no home, or both at the moment.

"She likes to help the people there…" The Quarian mumbled.

"Alright…" John nodded, finally deciding that this was a bit more important than meeting up with the Planetary Governor, "what is your name?" He asked.

"Tali." Said the Quarian, "Tali'Zora nar Eden."

_Born on a Human world…_ John thought, "okay..." Several moments of silence, "how old are you?" He wondered, mostly out of general curiosity, but also to give the girl another easy question, to get her mind off the fact that she had, in essence, lost her mother.

"I'm… Six…" She muttered, before she perked up a bit, "I'm almost old enough to get my own suit!" She proclaimed, proudly.

_Eight years younger than me… Remember not soldier…_ Thought John, as he nodded, "alright… You say you saw her last at the shelter?" The Quarian nodded, "why don't we check there, first?" He suggested, to receive another set of nods.

The two quietly made their way down to the shelter, John assumed Tali had simply wandered off, and couldn't find her way back, but nevertheless kept Tali's mind off of her 'missing mother' by asking her more general questions. She'd told him of how much fun it was, playing with the Humans on Eden, before her father, an Admiral of the Admiralty board, had been shipped out to Mindoir on a public relations mission. Tali told him of her inherent love for the color purple, and how she wished everything could be colored purple, John had humored her when she wondered what his favorite colors were, and had told her red and black, the colors of the SIGMA II program, the very same colors on the fatigues he was wearing.

Contrasting Tali's sterilized Human clothing, and her bubble, John was wearing his military fatigues. In previous centuries body armor and clothing were the primarily accepted norm for military apparel and protection; most popularly romanticized in the 20th and the 21st centuries, where body armor could be worn over fatigues. The advent of body armor helped greatly delay the crippling decades in the mid-21st century, when Earth's quickly disappearing resources caught up with itself, Body Armor replaced the stereotypical Armor Suits, like those used by the knights of olden times. However, ever since space travel, Armor - that is, Plate Armor and Armor Suits - had made a return, now that Earth and the System Alliance had access to material synthesizers and extra-terrestrial materials; body armor still existed, and was far more protective than that of the 21st century, but it was mostly used for police forces and secret service agents. The return of Plate Armor had marked the separation of the Military Uniforms. There were the Dress Uniforms, that service men and women wore to formal occasions, most commonly stylized from the Alliance Marine Corps' 'Dress Blues' . There were also the Military Fatigues, which most closely resembled the fatigues of the 21st century: the camouflaged jacket and pants, the boots, and the patrol cap and/or the boonie hat. John's own clothes were a SIGMA II-specific set of Military Fatigues, with a black and red digital-camouflage pattern, as opposed to the SIGMA I's black and blue, the Alliance Marine's Black and Gray, and the Army's Black and Green. Finally, there was the armor, unlike what many science fiction authors of the 21st century believed, not everyone in the future wore powered armor, that was reserved for the Special Forces. Regular Infantry, those being the Alliance Marines and the Alliance Army, wore 'raw' armor plates on their chest, arms, groins and legs, and a helmet on their heads.

The Quarian had several times mentioned the similarities between John's clothing and the clothing of the Marines she so often saw, when She had asked him how he got so strong, was when he'd given her the story he'd made up _long_ ago, that his father was a Marine, and he kept John on a tight physical training schedule. Most of the bigger words John used flew right over the Quarian's head, but she still nodded happily, satisfied with the answer.

"Hey… Johnny?" She said, after a few minutes passed in silence. John was still unused to the nickname, but didn't quite care, as most colony-kids he spoke to, who were at that age, tended to call him that, "what's that?" She asked, pointing to the sky.

John looked up to the sky, and nearly tripped over himself. Falling through the sky were flaming meteors, leaving long smoke trails as they hurtled to the ground. John recognized them for what they were, though: Mk. V Orbital Insertion Vehicles, used almost exclusively by the Alliance Orbital Dropping Death Dealers. As John recognized one breech the atmosphere, the first was joined by a second, was joined by two more, was joined by dozens, and slowly the sky became filled with hundreds of OD3 Drop Pods.

_OD3... Battle… Invasion… Attackers? Mercenary? Maybe… No, who?_ Thought John, before he shook himself from the thought. On instinct, his body bent down and picked up Tali - who giggled through the experience, thinking John was playing with her. As his mind took control over his body again, he made and acted upon the decision to sprint for the Shelter post-haste.

"Wee!" Cooed Tali, as John's mind was as far from care-free as it could get.

John was mentally going over his equipment, he had a pistol fastened to a belt tied around his waist, and hidden by his coat. He had four magazines, and the pistol fired fifteen bullets for each magazine. The pistol was a military-grade weapon, and it could take out the shields of an Alliance Marine with just a few shots, but whomever was attacking them likely wasn't Alliance, so that left Human Pirates, or Citadel or Terminus aliens, so shields likely weren't to be a problem, because even after the Citadel had upped the sensitivity on their shields, they still tended to be weak against the raw force and stopping power of conventionally accelerated bullets. Finally he had his smart-watch, which was programmed with all sorts of classified military radio frequencies, tech-based attacks, hacking suits, and direct-access satellite communications. The watch was also programmed with a set two highly classified weapons, made from HardLight.

Another one of Christopher McGraw's many advanced creations, HardLight was unique in the sense that _only_ SIGMAs could wield them. It was extremely expensive to make HardLight projectors, but what weapons and shields they did make were deadly efficient and lethal. In TITAN Armor, HardLight worked to perform three primary functions: To Harden the wearer's shields, to create an unbreakable, searing hot blade, and to create a HardLight barrier, to be used for cover. Hardened Shields were the source of many rumors about the SIGMAs, specifically about their indestructibility, HardLight barriers were _literally_ indestructible, and when activated, provided TITAN Armor with an impregnable barrier, at the cost of movement: Activating the HardLight Barrier rendered the SIGMA Immobile, which meant it was only _truly_ useful against missiles, tank rounds, and explosives. This led into the other two functions of HardLight, both of which could be programmed into a Smart Watch. HardLight weaponry was, at its core, McGraw's response to Omni-Weaponry, HardLight tools could create most any physical object, but amongst the SIGMAs they primarily took two forms: A blade, and a shield. The blade was a searing hot, deadly sharp weapon that could cut through Marine armor with a moderate amount of effort. The shield, conversely, was always erected at room temperature, and was, as advertised, meant to be used as protection; the shield's advantage over the HardLight barrier was that the user was immobile, but this came at the cost of the absolute defense the Barrier provided.

It was these weapons that John knew he wielded, but he couldn't help but think that they couldn't be enough, as his mind raced from his equipment to his situation. _The Alliance Army is most likely already scrambling…_ Thought John, as the shelter came into view, _The nearest base is supposed to be thirty to forty kilometers from here, though… So for a half hour at least, we'll have to survive with Police Forces and OD3's… What drones do the Police have? I'll have to check…_ The Shelter was just a dozen meters away now, John slowed his pace.

"Alright, Tali, let's see if we can't find your mom?" Said John, keeping his voice level, despite the slowly rising tension as people left their buildings to look to the sky.

_First will be the OD3's… The Army and the Marines follow them… No SIGMA's on this planet, save for me and Ducard… Ducard's in another city entirely though…_ Thought John, _I've got to do everything I can to defend this town._ He thought, solemnly.

"Okay!" Said Tali, as she rolled around, looking for her mother, which didn't take too long, as a Quarian woman, wearing a blue enviro-suit with a gray visor, emerged from the Shelter and recognized her immediately.

"Tali!" Shouted the woman, in a thicker accent than Tali's, Tali squealed and rolled over to her, the woman brought the little ball into a deep hug, which she held for a few moments before she looked up and noticed John, who already had his pistol in his right hand, and his left hand's Smart Watch active, ready to summon a blade or a shield with a single gesture. "Did you bring her back to me?" She asked, her eyes resting on the gun for a few moments, before moving to John's.

"Yes ma'am, I did, but there's no time for that now." He said, before he pointed to the sky, "those are Alliance Orbital Dropping Death Dealers, falling through the sky." He supplied, "that means that whatever is going on, Mindoir is under attack. You need to get inside _now_ and seal yourselves off!" He ordered.

The Quarian nodded, but paused a moment, "are you sure it is not a drill?" She asked.

John nodded, "Fire trails are only left when Orbital Insertion Vehicles are entering at invasion velocity, meaning that if this was a drill, they would be inserting at a much slower speed." He explained, before pointing at the drop pods that were still hurtling through the sky, "that's _not_ training velocity!" He stated, "so you need to get inside, and lock yourselves _down!"_ He ordered.

"What about you?" She asked, her voice raising as the people in the town realized what was going on.

John shook his head, "I've got to stay out here and assist with the defense of the colony. Whoever's attacking _has_ to know what to expect, so the defenders will need everything they can get to bunker down until the Alliance gets here." He pressed a holographic button on his Smart Watch, which sent out a 'ping' across all SIGMA channels, revealing his planet, position, and status, as well as an 'In Danger' signal. The SIGMAs back on Sparta, as well as Joseph Ducard S-99 on this planet, would recognize the signal, and would notify the Alliance. The Attackers would probably have only a few hours before this sector's Quick Reaction Force would arrive to bring immediate reinforcements, both as a responding action and as a delaying one, to buy time for the First Fleet to arrive, and bring the _brunt_ of the Alliance Forces down upon whomever was attacking them.

"But you're just a _child_!" The Quarian pointed out.

"I'm fourteen, my father's taught me _exactly_ what to do in this type of situation, and I'm _not_ a Child… I'm far from it." John responded, as his Smart Watch flashed red, Ducard had pinged the SIGMA Emergency code as well, but his flag read 'Under Attack', the invaders had already landed on his position.

"But -"

_"__Oh my god, look!"_ Shouted someone, cutting off the Quarian.

John whipped around and looked to the sky, three ships were rapidly descending to the ground - a few had been 'lucky' enough to slam into some unfortunate OD3 Drop Pods, killing their occupants. John couldn't recognize the ships' make and model, so that screamed 'Mercenary' to him.

"_Get inside!"_ John ordered, after he whipped back around to the Quarians, and pointed at the shelter, _"__if it isn't Human or Quarian, it doesn't enter!"_ He ordered her.

The Quarian woman must have realized that to argue would be pointless, and just as the first OD3 Pods began slamming into the ground, and the ships began pouring out drop-ships and shuttles, she sprinted into the shelter, carrying a now crying Tali in her arms. The door closed behind her, and John could tell from the way they shuddered, that they were being barricaded.

John nodded and opened up his smart watch, as he sprinted back into the town, _"t__his is John-S2-15 calling to any available Alliance Forces in the vicinity of the town, Sandohn, I am available and ready for tasking." _He called, as he summoned up a biotic barrier to act in place of shields. He, like many other Biotic II's, was proficient in the use of his Biotics, immigrated Asari had spent _months_ drilling the kids and forcing them to learn how to control it. They hadn't actually known they were training future Super Soldiers, they simply thought they were taking part in a military school program. John's biotic skill rivaled some younger Asari, but he still had yet to be augmented, which meant that when he hit 14, and later, 18, he would become among the _strongest_ Biotic Humans in the Milky Way.

_"__Hot damn, a SIGMA?"_ Someone called over the radio, which broadcasted through John's smart-watch, _"__what are you - Screw it, I'm not looking a gift horse in the mouth. This is Bill Sampson, Alliance Orbital Dropping Death Dealers, my squad and I have landed near the PG's house and we've already come under heavy fire… How soon can you assist?!"_ The OD3 demanded.

_"__Sampson, give me sixty seconds. Be advised: I am unarmored and will be in need of a rifle when I arrive."_ John told the OD3, as he tore off running in the direction of the Planetary Governor's home. Ducard had told the II's just _how_ secret the II program was, that _only_ select Alliance Officials, and the SIGMA I's knew of the program, but if necessity called, the II's could reveal their program very limitedly. John knew that basically equated to 'I _am_ a SIGMA, I just can't tell you what _exactly_ I am'.

_"__Look! There's a kid!"_ John heard an inhumanely deep voice shout.

_"__Take him!"_ That was all the indication John needed to leap forward. That action had no-doubt saved his life, as the moment after he hit the ground, he felt a volley of what _had_ to be knock-out rounds sail over him, just missing him by a few centimeters. John wasted no time, he rolled onto his back, and sent four rounds into two alien skulls. The aliens he shot went down like a sack of potatoes, and John had a moment to recognize their species.

_Four eyes… Taut, thick, yellow skin… Batarians. Slaving run… _Thought John, quickly. He wasted no more time, the sounds of war penetrated his skull and he remembered he'd dedicated his skills to the OD3's who were protecting the Planetary Governor. He leapt to his feet and sprinted to the north, the minute that passed was all that John had afforded himself to go over what just happened, what he'd just done.

He had just taken a life, he'd just ended the thoughts and feelings of another living, breathing, thinking, sentient _being._ Surprisingly, he found that he thought little of it, but he had not the time to decide whether this was due to the conditioning of the SIGMA II Program, the fact they weren't Human, or perhaps something a bit worse than both of those. His minute was up when he arrived at the Planetary Governor's house, and was greeted with a sight he hadn't honestly thought he'd see for another four years, at least: Warfare. Dozens of Batarians were fighting fifteen OD3's, and five police officers. The Humans were at a severe disadvantage, as the Batarians were doing everything they could to push forward, and into the admittedly large house. John wasted no time sending in a strong singularity, right into the midst of the Batarian troops. The Batarians were shielded, so the Singularity did nothing much, but it did set them up for John's next move; he sent a particularly debilitating Warp into one of the Batarians, which caused a domino effect that biotically detonated several of them, killing most and injuring the rest of those who'd been hit. The Batarians took a few moments too many to recover, as John had already rushed into them.

His HardLight-blade soared through the shields and into the neck of one Batarian, the Batarian died momentarily after, and John quickly spun the corpse around to use it as a meat shield. The other Batarians immediately began shooting at John, who's combination biotic barrier, Batarian meat-shield, and the deceased Batarian's kinetic barriers gave him ample cover. John fired his pistol into the Batarian masses, killing and injuring a few, he proudly noted that not a single shot missed.

_"__Come on!"_ John heard a Human voice shout, _"__push them back! Give the SIGMA some breathing room!"_ And with those orders, the Humans countered the Batarian masses. Nerve-grenades, flash-bangs, fragmentation grenades, and all manner of bullets soared through the air and halted the Batarian advance. Many of the OD3's avoided shooting at John's area, because of what he'd told them about his lack of armor. John used his biotics to hurl the shot-up Batarian corpse into the Batarians in front of him, and used the momentary distraction to reload. He had no time to fire, however, as the Batarians would shoot first; instead, John used his gesture-sensitive Smart Watch and thrust it forward, the HardLight-blade faded out of existence, and was replaced with a large, circular shield, colloquially known as either as the 'HardLight-Spartan's Shield', or the 'SIGMA Shield' in the SIGMA forces, as its physical appearance bore many similarities to the shields used by the Spartans of ancient Greece.

The Batarians' Mass Accelerated bullets slammed into the HardLight-Shield, and did little to no damage to John's barriers. John sprinted forward, and slammed the shield into the Batarians, he felt several alien bones crack and wasted no time in deactivating the shield, so he could shove his pistol in the faces of the Batarians, and execute the lot of them. After the Batarians fell, he looked to his left and saw one 'lucky' Batarian had rushed past him, and was making his way towards an unaware cop. John acted on instinct and sprinted forward to intercept the Batarian; after a moment he reached the alien and tackled him to the ground, before he shot it in the throat twice, the second one severing his spinal cord, and leaving the Batarian to die in just a few minutes.

The battle for the Governor's home lasted another few minutes, and ended just as fiercely as it had begun. When the Humans got a minute to rest, an OD3 made his way to John. John looked into the motorcycle-like helmet with a look that said '_Yes_ that happened.'.

"I'd… Be tempted to wonder what you're doing here… Just as I'd be tempted to call you kid." Said the man, before he looked to the dozens of Batarian corpses John had made, "but you and I both know you're anything but… You said you're SIGMA, so I'll take and leave it at that." He said, before he looked to John and extended his hand, "Sergeant Bill Sampson, Alliance Orbital Dropping Death Dealers." He greeted.

"John-S2-15, SIGMA Forces, no rank." John responded, shaking the man's hand.

"Alright John… Here's what we know…" Said Bill, as he picked up a Batarian rifle and handed it to John, hastily saying that his men had no rifles or ammunition to spare, John understood. "… A few hours ago a fleet, three-hundred strong, breeched Mindoir space through a Tuning Gate. They ambushed the Mindoir Defense Flotilla, and took us completely by surprise. The MSV - Mindoir Space Vessel - _Silas,_ a Destroyer, and the only one the MDF posesses, put up the best fight as it distracted the enemy forces from the MSV _Napoleon Bonaparte_, a Carrier and the de-facto flagship for the Mindoir Defense Fleet, as the ship deployed everything it had, Marines and OD3's included." He explained, John nodded, "The _Bonaparte_ emptied itself of its manned fighters, its drop-ships, and its OD3 Forces, but wasn't able to deploy all of its mechs before it was overwhelmed and destroyed. Right now the Alliance TITAN-Corps is focused primarily on protecting the capital and the larger cities, so we're flying manned only down here." He explained, before he nodded to a policeman, "he says they've got riot-mechs, but when the comm-satellites got hijacked their AI's couldn't ping 'em without a hard link." He then added, "my battalion is all Sandohn's getting, and the alien air is quickly pinning everything down. The _Bonaparte_ deployed all its marines and fighters, but the ball is in the aliens' court as they're using their primary-ship advantage to overwhelm our fighters and troop-transports. Last communiqué I got said we've got twenty minutes until the Alliance Army gets here, a bit longer for the Marines to safely break atmosphere… That's why _we_ got sent here, so _some_ Alliance force gets put here ahead of time." He finished.

"Alright…" John nodded, "I and my CO have already sent out a communications to our friends back home." He said, "the comm-channels we used shouldn't be known to any enemy forces, so the Alliance should be aware of what's going on, and should be scrambling to get people here within the day. For now, we need to _own_ this town… You need to protect the Planetary Governor, and link up with the rest of your battalion, I'll take the policemen to the station to get the mechs set up." John explained, "understood?"

The OD3 nodded, and relayed John's instructions. Within minutes, John and the two policemen were barreling through the town, making their way to the police station that lied on the other side entirely. The two policemen - Sam and Chuck - had quickly explained to John that they'd only had a year's worth of experience, and the only time they'd ever used their firearms outside of the shooting range was when they had to scare a few drunks out of a bar. John understood and told them the basics of combat, stay down, selectively fire, and if you think they're about to shoot, duck, _take no chances._

The policemen's AI, 'Jude', had transferred herself from the Data Disk to John's Smart Watch, and had quickly introduced herself to him. 'She' was only six years old, but had served in the police force ever since her creation. All she needed to access and begin piloting the police's mechs was a hard-link into the station's computers, which John could provide easily with his watch.

_"__Down!"_ John ordered in a light whisper, he and the policemen ducked behind a destroyed car.

"What's going on, sir?" Asked Chuck.

"I'm not an Officer, don't call me sir." John said hastily, before he waved the topic away, "contacts… Twenty five meters to my twelve." Whispered John, as he peaked above the car, he saw at least twenty Batarians, and they were all gathered in front of a building John recognized as the shelter he'd left the Quarians in. "Either of you got a headset?" John asked, Sam supplied him with an earpiece, which John linked to his watch.

John set the watch to amplify sound, and he pointed it at the Shelter, making a 'shush' sign with his other hand.

_"…__-ust come out, suit-rats!"_ Shouted the Batarian, thankfully John had linked the earpiece with the watch, otherwise it would have broadcasted from the watch's speakers, and given away their position, _"__We outnumber the lot of you. All we want is a couple thousand good slaves… And ever since your lot joined up with the Humans, and your immune systems got better, Quarians make _excellent _slaves!"_ He shouted.

_"__Go away!"_ Shouted someone from within the shelter, John didn't recognize the voice, but he detected the hint of desperation in his tone.

_"__A Human! Wow, the Suit-Rats actually _have _made friends! The hell's wrong with you, you primate? You could do a lot better than ally with the suit-rats."_ The Batarian rambled, _"__I'll give you one last chance… You open that door, right now -"_

"Sigma! They've got a tank!" Chuck warned John, and after he checked, John confirmed that the Batarians _did_ in fact, have an armored vehicle, but whether it was an Infantry Fighting Vehicle, or an actual Tank, was up to debate.

_"__- Or we blow the door open, and you all suffer!"_

"When I give the order, fire." John instructed, as he shut off the smart-watch and readied his rifle. The weight of the weapon was unfamiliar to John, as he was more used to the conventionally-accelerated weapons that Humans used, but he wasn't untrained for Mass Accelerator weapons, and as such he shifted into that mindset, as he aimed the weapon - a brutish assault rifle, of obvious Batarian design - at the lead Batarian.

"Three… two… one… Fire." John ordered, before he pulled the trigger, and let loose a flurry of Mass Accelerated bullets at the Batarian. The first four bullets bounced off his shields, but the fifth soared through and killed the man. The police used their own Mass Accelerator weapons and started spraying into the Batarians, injuring many but only killing a few.

_"__Move!"_ John ordered, as the tank rolled forward and began taking aim. John and the policemen scattered as the tank fired, the car they'd been sitting behind exploded, and John felt his barriers flicker violently as the flames, dust and debris tried to lick at his back.

_"__Argh! I'm hit!"_ John heard a Human voice call out, as he scrambled to take cover in the doorway of a brick house.

_"__Stay down!"_ John ordered, after seeing that Chuck - the one who was hit - was hiding in an alley, he couldn't see Sam, not immediately, however. It took him a moment to recognize a severed arm and a puddle of blood, he must have been hit by a Batarian weapon, or had been caught by the brunt of the explosion.

_"__No problem!"_ Called Chuck, John tried to look out to see where the Batarians were, but his eyes were greeted with the barrel of the tank, pointing directly at him.

_"__Fuck!"_ Shouted John, before he tackled the door of the home open, and dived to the ground.

The entrance to the home exploded behind him, and his barriers faded out of existence, with the brunt of deflecting the debris. When the ground stopped shaking, John attempted to get to his feet, only to find his leg caught under a particularly heavy chunk of rock.

"Well then… Isn't this interesting." Said a deep voice, John looked up and saw a Batarian, with a _big_ shotgun aimed haphazardly at John. In the distance, John could see another few Batarians slap some sort of collar on Chuck, the action alone enraged John as he finally realized _why_ they were invading: They wanted _more_ slaves.

The Alliance had, ever since its inception in the Galactic Stage, very tense relations with the Batarian Hegemony. The Batarians had at one point mounted an incursion into Alliance space, but the Alliance had a sizable military presence in the afflicted system, and had kindly ordered them away.

_But_, John realized, _This world isn't even a year old… It doesn't have the defense fleet of Eden, or the Orbital Defense Platforms of Elysium… It's the perfect target…_

"I've no clue how you managed to take out our men at the Planetary Governor's home… But if you're _that_ skilled in battle now… Imagine what a few dozen more years under slave-warrior training will do to you." The Batarian lifted his hand, in which there was the unmistakable slave-collar.

But the Batarian was not able to slap the collar on John. A blue blur slammed into the Batarian, and when they hit the ground, John recognized the figure as the same Quarian mother he'd found earlier. A horrified John tried to rip his leg from beneath the rubble, the Batarian was already overwhelming the woman. John looked helplessly at the battle before him, the Batarian slammed the butt of his weapon into the Quarian's face-mask, which, after a second blow, shattered into pieces. John could feel the rubble giving way, but knew he wouldn't get to his feet in time, so he reached for his pistol, which he realized too late was several inches from his arm. He desperately reached for it as the Batarian lifted its shotgun and pointed it at the woman's face.

_"__You'll… Die for that, bitch!"_ The Batarian roared, just as a child's voice screamed louder, and more desperately, than anything John had ever heard before.

_"__Mommy!"_ It shouted, before the Batarian's shotgun barked loudly, turning the Quarian's head into mush. John could feel the rubble give way more, but still the pistol was out of his reach. He tried using his biotics to slide the pistol over to him, but his earlier displays and the damage his barrier had taken left him exhausted on that front.

John knew the Batarian leader was aiming his rifle at the girl, Tali, was her name. The Batarian snarled as he raised his rifle and made to pull the trigger. John roared loudly, and his body flared with biotics. The stone flew off of his leg after he kicked it, and his gun soared into his hand. John leapt forward and tackled the Batarian, before he pumped three more rounds into the alien. John didn't take a single instant to take in his kill, he was already back on his feet. He picked up Tali as his barriers were raked with gunfire. He sprinted to the alley with Chuck, he dropped Tali on the ground - knowing the bubble would keep her safe from the impact - and slammed his biotically charged fist into the first Batarian he saw. The Batarian's skull caved in as John took aim and fired at another Batarian.

_"SIGMA, MY LEG!"_ He heard a hysterical Chuck scream, completely ignoring the collar around his neck.

"Stay down!" John roared, ripping the Brained Batarian's shotgun from his back, and opening fire upon the ones that were stupid enough to try and rush the alley.

John stacked up at the entrance to the alley and sent two shotgun blasts downrange, before he ducked back into the alley. He first looked at Tali, her bubble was still inflated, so she wasn't suffering from exposure, but she was crying silently, which might be worse. The police officer was screaming as the adrenaline flooded from his system and the pain of losing his entire leg became more and more apparent. John was the only fighter here, he had to fight as best he could. So with that in mind John broke cover again, but could only let the shotgun bark once before his barriers were overwhelmed and he felt something tear across his right arm.

Groaning in the pain of having his flesh ripped open by Batarian slugs, John got back to cover. There was far too many of them, he couldn't fight this, he needed an advantage. But, looking around, he couldn't see any way to reach a rooftop and get height on them, and he had no explosives so he couldn't stun them. But, as if fate was smiling upon him, he heard a deep explosion and then many raised voices.

_"__Their Army is here!"_ John heard a deep voice shout, as the tell-tale whir of a Tank's main cannon swiveling about could be heard, _"__I thought we had more time!"_ He shouted, as the tank's cannon roared once, twice, before it was bombarded with a dozen of the Alliance's finest armor-piercing Tank shells.

John looked around the corner and saw the Batarians ignoring him outright, now focused more upon the arrival of the Alliance Army. John felt pride and courage flood his system at the sight of Alliance Humvees and Tanks storming the 'beach', as a half dozen helicopters followed them. Whoever couldn't be transported by the vehicles was sprinting alongside them, forming a veritable flood of Human and Quarian soldiers, moving to storm the Batarians. John fired at the Batarians, very quickly creating a crossfire which the Batarians succumbed to within ten minutes.

John got back to cover and checked on his allies. Chuck was unconscious, but still breathing, and Tali was - _gone!_

An alarmed John's head whipped around to look for Tali, to find her in the most horrifying of places. Tali was sitting there, crying over her mother's headless corpse. He could see her desperately trying to push the mush back in, and piece together the glass shards and rubber shreds, as if it would magically bring her mother's head back together and her mother back into being.

John felt his heart slow down as this hit close to home. The entire reason he'd joined the SIGMA II's, right in front of him, being played out again, but with a different family altogether. His mother had been taken by aliens, and that was why he'd served, for revenge. But now another's mother had been taken, she too, by aliens. John had been trained for half of his life, and yet he hadn't been able to prevent this tragedy, what did that say about him? Was he truly that weak? Could he have done anything at all?

John shook the thoughts from his head, letting them cloud his mind would only bring trouble. He would have time for thought back on Sparta, in the barracks. "Jude, how far until the Police Station?" John Demanded, before he barreled across the street, through the empty house, and out the back-door. He would have loved nothing more than to wait for the Army to reinforce him and update him on the situation, but he had a mission to complete.

_"__Keep going west, for forty three yards, it should be on the corner of the street."_ Said the Police AI.

"Understood!"

John continued running, through the back-alleys and the yards of many homes, until he came to an intersection. On one end of the street, there was suburbia, and on the other, there was the _makings_ for an Urban environment. John could see a few grocery stores, a drug store, and the police station. He made for the Police Station, ducking and dodging the Human and Batarian fire as he went. As he sprinted through the city, he noticed several Batarian shuttles flying from the ground to the ships in-atmosphere and in orbit. Many of them were engaged by the Alliance Shuttles and Fighters that were coming from orbit to atmosphere, but far more escaped than were killed, from what John saw. When he made it inside, he had to quickly duck, as the station was swarming with Batarians. After a few moments of silence, John surmised that he hadn't been seen, so he decided that the best course of action, in this case, would be the lack thereof.

_"__Jude…" _John whispered, _"w__here's the Mech Storage wing?" _

In response, Jude activated John's smart watch, and drew him up a map. On one end of the facility, marked with a green triangle, was John. On the other, was a blue circle, indicating the Mech Storage room. John nodded, and switched his smart watch's floating holographic interface to skin-wrap mode, said mode was an recent Human invention, designed specifically to take up less space than the Omni-tool, and to use a solely holographic surface. John's arm looked like it had a moving-picture projection of a map painted onto it.

John got down low, and ditched his rifle, if he got into a firefight he could always just steal another, and since he was in a Human police station, no doubt there were some Human weapons he could use, to dominate the Batarians. He moved into the police station, keeping low and moving from cover-to-cover. After he made his way through the empty entrance hall, he found himself in the office rooms, which would provide a bittersweet blessing: He would have more places to hide, but so would the Batarians.

_"__Damn it…"_ Said a Batarian, causing John to instinctively dive underneath a desk in a cubicle, to avoid being seen. _"__Why do these Humans make their terminals in such a way?!"_ The Batarian demanded, before he came stomping into _John's_ cubicle, luckily he was too angry to notice John shrink smaller under the desk.

"Pipe down, Jorgax." Said another Batarian, "you're just shit at hacking Human machines. I thought you were top of your class, in the simulations?"

"Yes, the _simulations!"_ The first Batarian responded, "but the real thing is much, _much_ more difficult! How do we expect to fill the Hegemony's five million quota, when we can barely invade and conquer a planet with two?" He demanded.

_Quota?_ Thought John, as he began making a mental note of everything the Batarians were saying.

The two Batarians stayed in the cubicle for several more minutes, before Hacker got frustrated again and destroyed the computer he'd failed to hack. The two Batarians left, having been none the wiser that a Human Super Soldier - in training - had been hiding almost literally under their noses, the entire time. While he had been waiting for them to finish, John had taken stock of his injuries, surprised to find the pain on his leg and his bleeding arm were the only ones, so far, and equally surprised to see how much they _didn't_ hurt. He knew training went a long way, but it was amazing to him, how much the injuries didn't hurt. John waited five minutes, before he snuck out of the cubicle, and made his way through the station. His first stop was the armory, which wasn't _off_ the path of the Mech Storage Wing, but wasn't exactly directly on the path, as well.

When John got inside, he immediately rushed forward and sunk his HardLight-blade into the throat of the Batarian who'd seen him, and very nearly raised the alarm. His bad luck hadn't yet run its course, though.

"Rojin? What was that?!" Demanded a deep voice, from deeper within the mostly empty armory.

John knew he couldn't convince the Batarian that he was his ally, so he simply slammed on the metal locker next to him a few times. The Batarian took the hint that his ally was in trouble, and came barreling forward, only to be met with John's arm, slamming into his throat. The choking Batarian fell onto the floor, where John slammed his booted foot onto his neck, breaking it, and killing the Batarian; all of that, occurred within the span of six seconds.

John waited a minute, to make sure he was alone, before he hunted down some weapons. He made it out with a few extra magazines for his sidearm, a sub-machine gun with six magazines and a short-range, target identifying red dot sight, and a combat knife from one of the Batarians. While in the armory, John found a vial of cell fluid. Cellular Fluid, John knew, was the Alliance's miracle solvent, it was a universal medical tool, capable of - upon injection - sealing up most wounds on the battlefield, ranging from light, like cuts and bruises, to severe like gunshot wounds and explosive shrapnel. It couldn't heal broken bones or severed limbs, nor was it permanent, the nano-machines working in the system wore off within a few hours, thus its nature as a temporary fix, so the user could get to medical attention. Reveling in the cold feeling of the nano-machines running through his blood and sealing up his wounds, dulling the pain and helping to speed up the healing process, John snuck out of the armory, his SMG shouldered.

He had a few more close calls with more Batarians, but after rushing, he finally made it inside the Mech Storage wing, which the Batarians hadn't been able to force their way into.

_Must have been what they were trying to hack into…_ John realized, as he ran to a terminal in the back of the room. He opened a port on the terminal, and held his smart-watch in front of it, the port then glowed green, signifying that the AI had successfully transferred itself inside.

_"__Alright… Checking Mech Stores."_ Said Jude, as the lights inside the room began activating, and the machines began to come to life. _"__Fifty Wolves… Five Turtles… Five Scorpions… And two Titans… Full stores."_ The AI counted down, as the Mechs stood up. The wolves stretched their 'muscles', and shook the dust off of their chasis, the Turtles lazily stood up and made their way to the garage-door that would lead them outside, the scorpions stretched their tails, and began powering up the energy weapons contained within. The Titan classes, retrieved their back-mounted Tesla Cannons, and activated their arm-mounted machine guns, and prepared for battle.

_"__Activating riot suppression modes… Marking all recognized hostiles targets… Opening outside doors…_" Said the AI, and after the garage door opened, and revealed a few dozen very, obviously confused Batarians, the AI broadcast throughout the entire station, _"__Play my pretties, play!" _

After her declaration, the Batarians quickly realized that they'd been tricked, and tried to fire upon the mechs. The Wolves were the first ones to rush out, their spinal-mounted paralyzing-paint-firing machine guns tore into the Batarians just as easily as their claws and mouths. The Scorpions and Titans were the next to rush out into the fray, the former stunning the Batarians with their energy weapons, and the latter prioritizing Batarian armor - that is, their vehicles - to incapacitate with their directed EMP Cannons. Finally, the Turtles lumbered out, also firing with their EMP Cannons, and suppressing the Batarians with their heavy machine guns, which fired paralyzing paint ammunition, as they moved to provide mobile cover for the regrouping Alliance Army.

_"__This is Joseph Ducard-S1-99, broadcasting on all SIGMA Channels, John-S2-15, respond on channel 6."_ A voice broadcast from John's smart-watch, John noted that Ducard didn't even think to consider that he had died.

"Commander Ducard, this is John-S2-15, I hear you." Said John, into the watch, after he made sure the line was secure.

_"__John, I just got a communiqué from Sparta, the QRF is on its way, and it was closer than we thought it was, at first, but it will still be two hours until they can get here."_ Ducard began, _"__as well, the nearest SIGMA reinforcements are just as long away, but this is _not _a priority defense target, say again: Not, a prioritized defensive zone. That means until we get any semblance of assistance, we're the only augmented reaction force on the planet."_ He explained, not bothering to correct himself and mention that John hadn't reached augmentation stage yet, _"__so until reinforcements arrive, your orders are to use your skills and assist anyone who needs it. Understood?"_

"Understood sir, assist any who need help. SIGMA Two Fifteen out." Said John, before he cut his smart-watch, and made his way into the battlefield again.

* * *

><p><strong>March, 2216<strong>

_After a week of fighting on the ground, the Human Systems Alliance is able to push the Batarians from Mindoir. The Cyber-Corps utilized the Alliance Navy to send tracking machines after the Batarians, who, despite the Alliance's best efforts, got away with one million Human Slaves, and a quarter million Quarian slaves. _

**April, 2216**

_The Alliance Director of Affairs, William Tyson, addresses the Alliance. _

* * *

><p>William Tyson stood behind a curtain, not ten feet in front of him lay the podium, at which hundreds of cameras were pointed at, waiting for him to 'arrive' and begin his speech. Here, on Arcturus Station, William Tyson would once again address his species, and inform them that they were at war. He sighed one last time, it had only felt like hours had passed, since the Mercenary Wars, and minutes since the formal declaration of the Rebellion, and now they were fighting a recognized ally of the Citadel Council; that alone could have many repercussions, and very few of them good. The Council could see the attack on the Batarians as a declaration of war, and that which the Human Race had to fake destroying a <em>planet<em> to end, would start again in earnest. He silently prayed that he and his people would be seen as 'in the right', in this situation, and the Council would leave them alone.

William inhaled deeply, and cast his doubts aside. He took a confident step forward, and strode out into the view of the dozens of video cameras, and the billions of Humans and millions of Quarians that would be watching his address. He smiled, and gave a single wave towards the cameras, as he took his position at the podium, and his cloaked SIGMA I bodyguards took positions behind him, completely unnoticed by any of the reporters in the room, or the viewers at home.

"Humans…" William began, "Quarians… Today I speak to you, of a matter most dire." He said, "not two weeks ago, one of our colony worlds, Mindoir, was attacked. Its population shaken by the ruthless invaders, who sought to abduct as many Humans and Quarians as they could, and enslave them. I am very pleased to inform you that we have pushed the enemy naval forces from the system, and all enemy ground-forces have either been eliminated, subdued, or captured. Alliance Intelligence has identified the attackers, as Batarian Mercenaries, _funded_ by the overarching Batarian Government… The Batarian Hegemony." He continued, "dead aside, over one and a quarter million Humans and Quarians have been confirmed missing. This is as much a declaration of war, as it is an unacceptable action." He paused, "for hundreds of years, Slavery has been outlawed on my homeworld, Humanity's homeworld, Earth. Ever since the formation of the Alliance, Slavery has been illegal, and a horrible crime. The Hegemony has spat upon our laws, with claims of 'cultural importance'… I say this once, and I say it clearly." Another pause, "_Slavery_… Of _any kind_… Of _any_ species… Is _**not**_ acceptable. We do _not_ allow it." He stated, firmly. "Attacking our people with the intention of enslaving them, is something we will _not_ ignore." He paused, and inhaled deeply, to get ready for the 'big reveal'.

"As I speak… Our brave men and women in the Alliance Armed Forces are gearing up and making ready for war. Our retaliation will be swift, brutal, and decisive. _Any_ Batarian planet harboring the Human or Quarian slaves taken from Mindoir, are now our enemies, and our _targets_. Enemies of mankind… Enemies of the Quarian race… Enemies of the Human Systems Alliance!" He declared, "my people… As of this moment, we are at war." He said, before he finished with, "And to our people, trapped by the Batarian slavers… We have not forgotten about you. We _will_ not forget about you. We are _coming_."


	7. Chapter 6

_A/N: _

_Apologies for the late update, my reminder never reminded and all of a sudden I was staring at my calendar, knowing that I'd forgotten to do something last weekend.  
>Anyways, without further ado: We're off!<em>

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><p>Chapter 6<p>

* * *

><p>"<em>Humans. They are not the cowering wretches we were promised! They stand. They are unruly, and therefore cannot be ruled. To challenge them is to court death."<em>

— **The Other**, Marvel's The Avengers (2012)

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><p><em><strong>April 5<strong>__**th**__**, 2216**_

* * *

><p>"Oh my…" Said Jena Althon, an Asari, after the Human press conference had finished.<p>

Despite the fact that they were a separate entity entirely, and their _known_ brutality in the Human-Turian war, the Humans and the Alliance were quite known in Citadel Space. Many of their news networks were broadcasted on the larger, more populated Council worlds, and of course the Citadel itself. Ever since news had hit the Citadel that the Human colony, Mindoir, had been attacked, almost everyone looked to the Alliance News Network, waiting to see just _what_ the Humans would do. Most of the Citadel races were especially curious, as the Humans were notorious for their over-the-top reactions to small things, such as when a mercenary organization, the 'Black Stars', had attempted to rob an Alliance world, with a particularly large Eezo pool - which was a more regular occurrence in Council-space than the Citadel wished to admit. The Humans had responded to that, by wiping out the entire mercenary organization. Further more, when a Quarian ambassador had been insulted during a delegation to the Citadel, nearly every Human on the station had formed together to create a mass-riot, which had kept C-Sec occupied for several hours.

Now, the humans sought to 'top' their still-growing list of over-reactions, by not only expressing the desire to _specifically_ strike at the Batarian worlds with Human slaves, but they would attempt to rescue _every_, and _any_ slave they came across? That alone seemed ludicrous, even the Citadel - with its galaxy-spanning might - couldn't - _wouldn't! - _attempt something like that. The Humans, powerful and unorthodox as they may be, were setting themselves up for failure by setting these goals.

"Do you truly think they will attempt this?" Jena asked of her bondmate, it took her a half second to realize her mistake, as Joban - a Turian - was a veteran of the Human-Turian war, and, though he mostly kept his opinions to himself, was never afraid of saying what he - and, coincidentally, half of the Turians in Citadel Space - thought of Humans, if asked.

"They're _brutes_, Jena." Said Joban, "We've already seen how they fight. They'll attempt to look nice, and they will attempt to rescue their people, but the moment that becomes too difficult, or too taxing, they'll resort to simply dropping nuclear weapons on the Batarians, and 'calling it even'." He told her, the faux destruction of Palaven was a _very_ sore point with the Human-Turian War veterans. Many had called the Humans' honor into question, after all was 'said and done', as the Humans would say, the Turians questioned the Honor and Morality, of a race who would first bomb dozens of cities, and two and a half million non-combatants to oblivion, and go on to fool everyone into thinking they had killed literally billions. The retired Human, the one who had led the race at the time, defended his actions whole-heartedly, though at every chance, he did say the choice to trick everyone into thinking his people would drop the Planet Destroyers was one he would regret until the day he died. "This will last until the Humans grow bored with the Batarians… Then they'll just call it 'mission accomplished', drop a few nuclear weapons in celebration, and leave everyone's whose lives they've ruined to fend for themselves." He stated, bitterly.

"I always thought the Humans were a bit more noble than that… Father." Said the two's only daughter, Wiveryn, Jena mentally sighed at her daughter's naiveté, she never did know, even after thirty years - a long time for Turians, a blink of an eye for Asari - when to hold her tongue around her father, "I mean… Despite the power they wield, they haven't once sought out conflict… They've only _ever_ reacted… They _reacted_ in the Human-Turian war… they _reacted_ in the Eclipse war… they _reacted_ during the Citadel Riots… And they're _reacting_ now." She argued, "Even if they cannot accomplish their goals, I do not truly think they would resort to dropping such destructive weapons, needlessly." She finished.

* * *

><p>John-S2-15 sat down in the mess hall, on Planet Sparta, in SIGMA Delta Company base. Around him, the mess hall was abuzz with conversation and activity. The lunch break was the SIGMA II trainee's one chance at a break, and they <em>all<em> took advantage of it, every time, every day. The ceiling, while not too high, was high up enough that the sounds of conversation would hit and bounce off of it, and echo around the room, making it seem much louder than it really was. The pale yellow walls were brightened to warmer appearing colors by the artificial lighting, but the bare white, linoleum floors were just as cold as the winter air.

John heard the clanking of a tray next to him, and he saw one of his closer friends sit down. He knew what the conversation's topic would be, and the teen's words only confirmed John's prediction.

"So what was it like, John?" Asked Justin-S2-99, "being in combat?" He elaborated, as another tray clunked onto the table, on the other side of John.

It had only been a few days since John and Ducard had arrived home at Sparta, but they'd been gone a week longer than expected, assisting the Alliance forces that had arrived to liberate Mindoir. The unforeseen turn of events had given John an unexpected 'advantage', over his fellow SIGMA II's: He was the only one, out of the entire SIGMA II program, to have seen actual, live-fire, _combat._ He'd been a practical celebrity, ever since then, everyone wanting to know what it was like, to be just an inch from death, what the feeling was like, killing people, and how it felt to _actually_ be serving the Human race, instead of the 24/7 combat and training exercises the child soldiers underwent.

John always gave the same answer, to the others, and to his best friends, "It's not something I enjoyed." He told Justin, "I didn't revel in the feeling of killing people… And I didn't quite like the feeling of getting shot at." He said, before a few moment's pause, "and make no mistake about it. Lives were lost." He remembered the Quarian girl, crying over her mother's corpse. A few moments' pause, "but… I will say, many more lives were saved than were lost, while we waited for Alliance reinforcements… The look on their faces, when I'd save them from the explosive collars, from when my bullets killed the men pointing guns at their families…" John let a small smile grow on his lips, though it failed to reach his eyes, "It'll be something I'll never forget." he said, "It made me realize why the Ones are doing this to us, every day. It made me realize the validity of our training… And it made me realize just how much we _matter."_ The SIGMA Teen continued, "because if I'm this effective - if _we all_ are this effective - during our teenage years, when our bodies are still changing… Imagine how effective we'll be when we become adults… When we head off to Titan station and get our augmentations…" He mused.

And it wasn't a lie; after Mindoir, John had a newfound sense of pride in his species. For his entire life as a SIGMA II trainee, he'd wondered if what the Alliance had approved - the essential kidnapping and forced conscription into the military - was worth the endless hours of pain and agony that had come with it. For the longest time, John had no true opinion, he understood _why_ the SIGMA II's had been made: They needed soldiers that were _better_ than the best, especially after the SIGMA I casualty counts had been revealed, after the Second Contact War. He _knew_ that, the next logical choice, would be to take in kids, and train them from day one to be nothing but killing vectors, who eat, sleep, and breathe battle. But he could never form an opinion on if it was _justified,_ if it was _right_ to have kidnapped thousands of children with the purpose of turning them into deadly warriors. After Mindoir, and in spite of the horrors he'd seen the Batarians commit, John understood that what the Alliance was doing was _right._

The SIGMA I's were great - _greater_ than great - but they'd taken unacceptable casualties during the Second Contact War; and when they'd been pit against the Turian SIGMA's - which the Alliance hadn't ever been able to find solid evidence to pin against the Hierarchy, other than soldier's accounts and helmet-cam footage, that the Turians dismissed as doctored - they'd been showed that the had _already_ made their own versions of _our_ best, and they proceeded to clash with our soldiers, and regularly defeat them! Sure, the SIGMAs had done very well against the Turian SIGMAs, and held their ground in many theatres of war, but the fact remained that the Turian SIGMAs were far more numerous, and therefore they used that to defeat them, and almost universally win against the smaller squads and teams of SIGMA I's. So the Alliance had to come up with something to counter the _alien_ Super Soldiers.

The Alliance's solution, response, and counter, to the Turian Super Soldiers would be to take children - orphans of the war, no less - and train them, from day one, to become the most efficient killers known to Human kind. Since day one, the SIGMA II's were treated like the lowest possible life form, they were repeatedly broken, in body and spirit, so their instructors and trainers could reshape them into fierce warriors, and John's experiences on Mindoir had told him, and the rest of the Alliance, that it was _working._

The Alliance had already contacted many SIGMA instructors, simply wondering if the II's would be ready for live-fire 'training', in the blitzkrieg the Alliance was about to conduct upon the Batarians. Nothing was concrete, but rumors had started flying among the SIGMA Teens, many believed that the instructors - after seeing the footage, and reading the reports of John's performance, and actions - may actually be prone to allow it. The II's were secretly giddy, they may actually have a chance to prove themselves to the adults, to the I's.

"So… It's not something to enjoy, but something you're proud of?" Asked George, his voice deepening with puberty, and his accent only ever deciding to thicken as time went on.

"Kind of." Said John, "I'm only proud of the fact that I helped, and, according to Ducard, I was instrumental in most of the fronts I assisted in. I'm not proud of any of the kills I got." He stated, "or the deaths that happened because of my lack of skill." His tone was firm.

"I see… So do you think the instructors will let us join in, on the Batarian war?" Justin asked.

John shrugged, "Maybe, maybe not." He said, after he finished his food, and sat back, "I won't be surprised any way." He finally decided, "if they let us go in, we'll either be on defense, or on the frontlines. Either way, we won't be going in with the marines."

"What makes you figure?"

"Because we're still a heavily guarded secret… the Ones were revealed back in the SCW, but that was out of necessity, because the Turians almost literally bombed our morale to new lows, after New York." John responded, "the Alliance didn't _want_ to reveal the Ones, and they don't want to reveal us. So if we get deployed, we'll be on our own fronts, away from the marines. We might… _might_ be working with the Death Dealers… Or the N7, but that's as unlikely as us seeing action with the marines." He explained.

George and Justin nodded, George spoke, "It'll be interesting anyway… Back in the Second Contact War, we blindsided the entire Galaxy, with our technology, with our methods… A lot of people say _that's_ why we won…" He said, "but now? The Batarians, the galaxy, more or less, _knows_ how the Alliance Military operates. They'll have a general idea on how to counter us, our ships, our soldiers… etcetera." He said, "so we may be in for a tougher fight."

John shook his head, "the Turians are a lot like us, they're _built_ for the military. Conscripted service is mandatory for everyone when they hit sixteen… The Batarians have CS, yes, but their military isn't as dedicated as the Turians', or ours." He said, "half of their military is brainwashed slaves… A fourth is conscripted soldiers who don't want to be in it… And the last portion are experience-starved soldiers who _want_ to be in it, but haven't seen combat in so long that they're pretty damn rusty." He explained, "so for the first few days, it'll be a blitzkrieg, they won't see it coming, and we'll burn through their cities, and liberate their slaves. Then, when they regroup and give us a coordinated response, we'll have already conquered so much of their territory and given such deep blows to their morale, that they'll be just as likely to give up, and surrender, as they will be to fight us to the bitter end." He finished.

George nodded, and slowly the conversation melted down to normal things, and after a while, the three got into their usual debate about the advantages of sniper rifles, versus assault rifles.

* * *

><p><em>"<em>_Sir, Christopher McGraw, is here to see you." _Said Jack Harper's personal Artificial Intelligence, interrupting Harper's reading of reports from the Teltin project.

"Let him in." Said Harper, calmly, as he closed the report.

A moment later, and the door to Harper's personal office opened, temporarily breaking the nearly jet-black image of his room. The floor and ceiling was made of a dark, but reflective material, which, after reflecting the dying light of the system's star, gave whomever walked into the room the feeling of literally walking on space. Of course, very few, apart from McGraw and Harper, had ever actually walked in the room.

"I forget, do I call you 'Timmy' or 'Jack'…?" Asked McGraw, with a smile on his face and voice, as he sat down in his chair, across from the table, which Harper usually found himself sitting at.

"We've been over this, Chris." Said Harper, who too, was smiling, "No one but you, I, and Eva can enter this room or hear its conversations." He told the man, "to what do I owe the pleasure?" He asked.

"Heard about the Mindoir attack?" Chris asked, "Ever since John Two Fifteen's performance, they're thinking of deploying the SIGMA II's… After, of course, they get their first-augs… Which should be soon, now that I think about it." Chris muttered, trying to remember the date he'd been supplied.

"They are?" Asked Harper, his deep, but calm voice not betraying his disbelief, "The Alliance is thinking of deploying the six hundred twelve fourteen year olds into a war?"

"They may be fourteen, but I heard John Doe-S2-1 kicked the living hell out of a few marines, so they're no where near 'normal' kids." Chris retorted, "but yes, the Alliance is seriously considering seeing if their seven year investments are paying off."

"And what do you think?" Harper asked.

"I think it's a perfect time to initiate Project Vanguard." Chris stated, bluntly.

This gave Harper pause, it hadn't been Chris _or_ Harper to have drawn up the plans for Vanguard, but rather one of the men from the Titan Cell, they both knew that the mere _beginning_ of the project would have enormous repercussions, far too numerous to count, but each one - very far down the line - having a huge impact on the way the Galaxy is recognized, today.

"You realize… That we cannot _undo_ the beginning of Vanguard." Harper stated.

"You and I _both_ know what we saw on Mars." Chris stated, "What we found. If we don't want everything we know to be burned in less than a century, we need to begin Vanguard and start the process… The way I see it, this is the perfect way and perfect _time_ to initiate it." He stated.

"Do you believe that they are _ready?"_ Asked Harper, "you've seen the estimates… If they all outlast Vanguard, it will take decades to recover from it, possibly too long." He stated.

"If 'they' come, during the post-recovery from Vanguard, it'll be all the easier to sift back into the right economies… Get the civilians back into the right mindset… Get the lines into the right lengths… And the participants into the right training." McGraw responded. "the Titan Cell has already told me that the scanners are nearing fifty percent completion… And Gladys is telling me she's a quarter of the way through finding His notes." He said, before his tone became deadly serious. "I still don't think we should have anything to do with Him or anything that had _something_ to do with him. He's bad news, Jack. He isn't what's right for his galaxy, neither are… His suggestions."

Harper nodded, "Right and wrong, are thrown right out of the window, when extinction is at hand… Whyte said it best… About how, when faced with extinction, all alternatives are preferable." He stated.

McGraw nodded, "But... Edward?" He asked, "we can't trust him, Jacky. Not after what we found there."

"The simple fact of the matter is, Chris, he's the best source we have. Outside of actually going out and hunting one down, he's all we've got." A pause, , "Even so, we can't focus on Edward right now, if Vanguard truly is to be implemented, I'm more than certain the fools in the Citadel will take up the extinction prevention mindset, as well." He added.

Chris sighed deeply. "If Vanguard works, they won't have much choice, will they?" He asked, as he opened up his smart watch, "any last words?" He asked.

Harper smiled, _"__Semel ad contritionem."_ He said.

McGraw chuckled, _"__Donec ad finem."_

* * *

><p>"So, lord Hoorn, the Humans have played their card." Said Heiran Sina, the high-Commander for the Hegemony's Armed Forces. Sina was, to put it lightly, in charge of the ten million 'true' Batarian soldiers, as well as the twenty six million that make up the Batarian Slave Corps, the numbers breaking the record for the largest the Corps had <em>ever<em> been.

"Hmph…" Grunted Lord Seriul Hoorn, the current High Chancellor of the Batarian Hegemony, he had first and last say in everything the Hegemony did, on official or deniable scales. "the Humans wouldn't _dare."_ He stated, "the Citadel Council warned them, during their Mercenary Wars, that if they even _thought_ of mounting incursions into Citadel Territory, even to retaliate against their enemies, the Council would not accept it." He explained.

Sina nodded, "That is true… But that was when the Humans were killing mercenaries… They say they have _proof_ that we financed the Mindoir subjugation…" He left the sentence hanging.

Hoorn shook his head, "The Mysterious One showed us his plans. They were so perfect a child could have executed them and not get caught. There is no possible way they found us." He growled.

"But... They made the threat... They promised their people they would come... Even The Mysterious One can't stop that... They will come, sire."

Hoorn snarled, "They will _**not**_ attack the revered lands of the Hegemony!" He roared, "lest they feel the raw _might_ of the Citadel Council, along with our strength!"

"But the Humans, a decade ago, _proved_ they do not fear anything, least of all the Council, who they brutalized in direct warfare!" Sina stated, "if you do not wish to believe me, at least allow me to send the Defender Fleet to the reception colonies, the ones that we sent the Humans to." The High Commander asked, the slightest hint of plea in his tone.

Hoorn glared daggers at Sina, "Fine." He stated, "even though, beyond the shadow of a doubt, I know the Humans were _bluffing…_ I shall allow it." He said, "The Defender _and_ the Hegemony's First fleets will be spread out to Shelinaa, Hasin, and Sior." He said, before he waved away the High Commander.

"Thank you, lord." Sina bowed, "you will not regret this."

_"__I already do."_ He snarled.

* * *

><p>"Just stay quiet guys, I think we're landing." Said another Human, as the ship began shuddering to a halt.<p>

Alfonse Jordan sighed, they'd been sailing through the void for days now. This ship - he'd heard - held at least sixteen thousand Humans, and several hundred Quarians. He'd been separated from his wife days ago, he didn't know if she'd been saved by the Alliance, or she'd died, he'd been hoping and praying for the former. Alfonse looked up as he felt the ship stop moving altogether, and he heard several men enter the cargo bay they'd all been thrown into. He saw their sickly yellow skin and shuddered, he couldn't believe _these_ men, had taken him and thousands of other Humans hostage, what's more, he couldn't believe they'd killed _hundreds,_ no, he realized, they'd had to have killed _thousands_ of his brothers in the Alliance Marines.

The Batarians lifted their weapons, and fired into the air, the slaves - _no!_ he reminded himself, they were Humans, and Quarians of the Alliance - in the room all screamed and ducked their heads.

_"__Congratulations, Humans and Quarians of the Alliance!"_ Shouted a Batarian, as they began leading Humans and Quarians out of the room, the former in rags and the latter in damaged suits. _"__As of this moment, you are no longer the 'free men and women' your governments made you all out to be… You are no _longer _the people of the species that defeated the Turian Hierarchy… That hunted mercenaries to near extinction… You are __**SLAVES!"**_He roared, _"__Of the Batarian Hegemony! You are no longer people, you are no longer free, you are no longer living beings! You are __**property**__, to be bought and sold at _real _people's leisure!" _He sounded more and more smug as he continued shouting, Alfonse couldn't stand them. _"__I know for a fact… That some of you may wish to rebel… To refuse!"_ He began, almost mirroring Alfonse's thoughts, _"__Allow me to show you, exactly how much you are worth, and how much we value you as individuals…"_ He waited a moment, then then activated his Omni-too, suddenly, three Humans began screaming and in great amounts of pain, their collars attacking their nervous systems and bringing them to a great, terrible, and painfully slow death. _"__You are worth nothing! We will not __**hesitate **__to kill you with a moment's notice!"_ He roared, killing another, a Quarian, just to prove his point. _"__Any thoughts of rebellion, we will stamp out of you! Any thoughts of home, we will burn from your minds! Any thoughts of family, we will pollute with hatred! You are nothing, you are the dirt beneath our feet!"_ He roared, as Alfonse was told to get to his feet.

When Alfonse passed the Batarian, he stopped in his tracks, much to the Batarian's delight.

"Looks like we have our first volunteer, for rebellion." He grinned, "What are your last words, _Slave?!"_ He demanded.

"I'm not rebelling." Said Alfonse, "You'll kill me before I even leave this ship, and then you'll keep the rest of us for as long as the Systems Alliance allows you to… But let me tell you this… They _won't_ allow you to keep us as your slaves." He stated, "We are Humans… Entire eras, we had our own slaves. Those eras were hell for the slave owners… I'll tell you that." He stated, "When you decided to take in the Human race as slaves… You started a war, the likes of which you've never seen… You may have six seconds of glory, while we're under your rule… But even as I speak…" The Batarian sneered as he lifted his rifle, "My people… Who've known war for their entire history… They're coming… And Hell is following them." His life was ended the moment he finished.

* * *

><p>"Director, Director Serios is here." Said a woman, as she walked into the Alliance Director for Affair's office, aboard the mighty Arcturus Station.<p>

"Send him in." Said Director Tyson, Director Jonathan Serios had been the Alliance Director for Defense for twenty years now, he was the DfD during the Second Contact War, and many of his tactical decisions during the Palaven Invasion had saved lives, and had turned battles. He'd been the one, when the Turians had deployed their 'Ghosts', to make the decision to spread out the severely outnumbered SIGMA I's as far as they could, while retaining effectiveness; this ended up costing the _Turians_ victory in several cities, and had kept the Alliance their foothold on Palaven, while the Alpha Team worked to bring the war to an end. Jason Whyte, the Director for Affairs during the war, had _much_ respect for the man, and now the man was coming in with his decision to deploy the SIGMA II's during what was quickly becoming called the 'Batarian War'.

He entered Tyson's office, he was a short man, four inches below the average Human Male height of six feet, even. His skin was pale, but not sickly so, it had been the result of staying at the station for extended periods. His low-cut, dark brown hair was combed backwards, and Tyson could see in his dark green eyes that he meant business.

"Jonathan, how nice to see you." Said Tyson, as he stood up and extended his hand.

"Bill." Was Serios' quick response. Serios was a no-nonsense guy, he was blunt and straight to the point, and many thought that that was what had contributed to the overall Human victories upon Palaven.

"How's Betty, and Joseph?" Asked Tyson, as he and Serios sat down.

"Well, Betty's expected to give birth any day now, and Joseph's telling all his friends about how much fun his kid brother will be." Said Serios.

Tyson nodded, "That's good." He said, and after a moment's pause, "But, we both know we're not here to talk about _our_ kids."

Serios nodded as well, "Quite." He said, "Tell me, Tyson, when are the II's expected to undergo the Pharmaceutical Augmentations, as outlined in McGraw's formulae?" He asked.

"Next week, if memory serves." Tyson responded.

"A week's time… And all of them will take their second step." Said Serios, "I believe, and it is the same sentiments of my advisors and of Trent, that we should only deploy them _after_ these augmentations." He stated.

Tyson nodded, "You believe they are ready?"

"Yes." Said Serios, "The Pharmaceutical augmentations will be enough to make them 'light' super soldiers, and when we give them a week to recover and adapt, we deploy them." He explained, "That one's performance… John-S2-15... He hasn't been augmented yet, either, and he matched entire squads of Special Forces operatives, and outperformed several." He said, "and Trent and the Instructors have assured me that his skill level was the _average_ for the SIGMA II's… So that means that there are a six hundred eleven more of them, waiting to be deployed, and waiting to burn down some poor Batarian's planet." He finished.

Tyson nodded, "Alright then, I'll get the paperwork drafted up." He said, "How are our fleets doing? When will they be ready to strike?" He asked.

"The Fast-Attack Fleet will be ready within the hour to push the Hegemony forces from their Relay, and the Relay Movers will be ready within two, to freeze the system." He said, "The first and Second fleets will all be ready the moment the systems get frozen. I've taken the liberty of assigning the Tuning Task Force-Fleet, to spearhead the attack." He added.

"The Tuning Task Force-Fleet?" Asked Tyson, only slightly surprised, the Tuning Task Force-Fleet was a fleet of one hundred ships, comprised solely of Frigates, Destroyers, fifteen Dreadnoughts, five Carriers, and one flagship, all armed with the latest in Alliance naval weapons, and armored with Tuning Armor, which had been the number one reason many in the armed forces called the fleet the 'Unstoppable Force' Fleet, because Tuning Metals were, in essence, indestructible. The Alliance had done hundreds of tests on a decommissioned Tuning Ship, to learn the limits of Tuning Armor; they'd finally learned that the only thing - that Humans had, at least - that could pierce Tuning Armor were the Mk. 3 Orbital Defense Platforms, that were stationed above Earth. The Mk. 3 ODP's were capable of firing at _ten_ percent the speed of light, nearly thirty million meters per second, which was the maximum capability, even now, for any Alliance magnetic accelerator weapon. The Mk. 3 OPD that had fired upon the ship had hit it with the force of over sixty five thousand megatons of TNT, and had torn the ship in two as a result. "You sure the Batarians warrant such a military operation?" He asked.

"It was Director Whyte, that said any threats to Earth, its children the Humans, and its brothers and sisters, our colonies, should be dealt with extreme prejudice." Said Serios, "Deploying the Tuning Task Force-Fleet, is proving that we'll keep our end of the deal we made long ago, with the people of the Systems Alliance."

"Oh? And what would that be?" Tyson asked, though he was sure he knew.

"To destroy anyone that would dare harm Humanity, the Quarians, or the Systems Alliance." Serios stated.


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

* * *

><p>War endures. War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner.<p>

— _**Blood Meridian **_

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 31<strong>__**st**__**, 2216**_

* * *

><p>Had it really been three days, only?<p>

For Jillian Sampson, it felt like it had been three years, since she'd been - almost literally - thrown headfirst into her newest of occupations. She'd been a _slave - _a word that she'd only ever paid attention to during her history classes on Eden - for only three days, and yet she'd already gained a myriad of scars from her new master. Whenever she didn't clean something right, that was a lashing. Whenever she didn't cook the _god awful_ Batarian Cuisine to an exact temperature, that was a lashing. If she slept even a second after 3:30 in the morning, that was ten lashings; and if even the _thought_ of disobeying or showing up a moment late to her Master's (Or his several children and his eight wives.) orders, that was twenty.

Sampson's only respite came in the form of another slave, but this one wasn't a Human, but rather, an Asari, who had apparently been a slave of this family for generations, she said she'd lost count after three hundred years of servitude. Sampson had felt really sorry for the Asari, she'd been a slave for thee _hundred_ years, and she was complaining about three days. The Asari - Saira, was her name - had been great at helping her adapt to the Slave's life, and teaching her how to do, whatever her Master's demanded of her.

Sampson's mind unconsciously found itself going back to when the language barrier between Saira and herself had been overcome. When the Master had gotten beyond frustrated that Saira couldn't properly convey to the Human on how to cook Batarian food, he'd - after an hour's whipping, mind - updated the Asari's translator so the two could understand each other. Jillian had been amazed when Saira told her of the life she could expect, now that she was her master's property. Saira had told Jillian that, given a few decades of service with few mishaps, the chance existed that she may get her bomb-collar removed, like she had a century earlier. Jillian couldn't help but be bewildered at how _indoctrinated_ Saira was, as opposed to the Human's anger at her position and her passive-aggressive rebellion against her masters, Saira was one hundred percent dedicated to what she did.

It amazed Sampson, just how effective the Batarians were at their mind games, because she hadn't been able to get anything rebellious out of her Asari companion. However, she had gotten a reaction the night previous, when Saira had been as captivated as a wide-eyed child, when the Human spent their entire sleep-cycle explaining to Saira what Humans, and the Systems Alliance was. At the mention of how the Alliance had defeated the Turians, just over a decade ago, during the Second Contact War, Saira's eyes had, temporarily, brightened at the prospect of freedom, however, reality hit Saira like a semi-truck and the light in her eyes dulled as her mind went to more important things, such as warning the Human that if they stayed up any later, they would not be able to complete their sleep-cycle and still function acceptably the next day. The words hit Sampson hard, because the light she'd seen in Saira's eyes had been filled with a brief flicker of hope, so in the end Jillian lied to Saira, hoping to see the light again.

"Just you wait... Saira." Jillian had told her, before she curled up onto her sheetless mat, high up in the attic. "The Alliance will come, they will save us." She said, though she barely believed it herself.

"That is nice..." Saira had responded, "perhaps the masters will allow me to make them some dinsa."

Jillian couldn't get Saira's words out of her head the entire day, even now, as she was on her hands and knees, viciously scrubbing what passed as the Batarian version of a stove, for the eighth time that day.

_"Human!"_ She heard her master's deep voice bellow, _"here!"_ The one-word command was all it took to inspire Jillian to get to her feet and rush out of the kitchen.

Outside she was greeted by the brown grass and unhealthy lawn, the sky above them was a dingy blue, lacking the life of any Human colony. The Master, impatiently, ordered Jillian to him. It was as he was giving Sampson her newest set of orders that she noticed an odd stillness in the air. She couldn't help but let her eyes drift to the city in the distance, the ugly picture ripping straight through the planet's environment, seeming to poison the very air around it.

The Master's fist slammed into Jillian's lower stomach, _"you look at me when I -"_ He was silenced by an ear-piercing whistling noise coming from the north.

The Master whipped around as Jillian, doubled over in pain, looked up and saw what the Master was looking for, before he saw it. There were three flaming white streaks screaming through the air, all seeming to converge on the same target. Just when the Master found what he was looking for, did the Rods from God slam into their target. The building they hit seemed to explode from the inside out, as dust and debris shot out of its windows like bullets from a gun. In seconds the building finally lost its battle against the space weaponry and began to fall to the ground.

A wide-eyed Human slave couldn't stifle her gasp as she recognized what she'd just seen. Rods from God were a uniquely Alliance weapon, because the Alliance wasn't bound by the Citadel's version of the Geneva Convention, so they could still use space-based weapons against planets; specifically barred by the Citadel was Garden Worlds, or worlds that could support known life. Their presence here could only mean one thing, said idea was enforced when Sampson looked up and saw the sky being lit ablaze as hundreds - if not, thousands-of meteor-like objects were hurtling through the air, and above them came the falling, flaming wreckages of Batarian ships.

"Oh… My… God!" Said Sampson, simply _not believing _what her dark brown eyes were showing her.

The Alliance was here.

They hadn't abandoned them.

They were _safe!_

A moment after the master snapped out of it, her 'owner' looked to his slave and saw the hope the meteors and destroyed ships had brought, and did _not_ like the way it looked. So he activated his Omni-tool, and sent an overload flying towards Jillian, the overload sent Jillian to the ground, convulsing as it would if it were a taser.

"Don't you remember what you were _told?!"_ He demanded, as he removed a hand cannon, "you will never, ever again… Be free!" He said, as he walked towards them and aimed the gun.

He was about to pull the trigger, when the ground shook violently. The Batarian whipped around, in time to see five more tungsten rods, shot from the Alliance satellites that had been launched into orbit, by the ships that were currently isolating the planet from the galaxy around it. The Rods from God slammed into the ground, and Sampson knew that, because three seconds passed and she hadn't died, they weren't the Tungsten Rods weren't launched at what her father - an Orbital Dropping Death Dealer - had called 'Nuke Speed', meant to be launched at such speeds that when they slam into the ground, they do damage comparable to a low-yield Nuclear Bomb.

_Thankfully_, she thought, _I won't have to worry about _that.

The Batarian above her's shoulders were sagging, a Rod from God slammed into another Batarian Skyscraper, and even from this distance, the sounds of the building falling to the ground were deafening.

_Move! Kid…_ She almost heard her father telling her, _I spent years telling you what to do in these situations! Now MOVE! _'He' ordered her, in his 'Soldier Voice'.

Jillian snapped out of her trance, and saw the Batarian, who was still very obviously shaken at the 'unforeseen' invasion. She got to her feet as fast as she could, and leapt onto the Batarian's back, one arm locked tight around his throat, the other hand viciously clawing at his four eyes. The Batarian only took a moment to realize what was happening, and roared, as he fought the Human off of him. She wrapped her legs around his waist and tightened her lock around his throat, effectively locking her to him, as she continued to scratch, claw, and beat his eyes and face. Her attempts, eventually, proved to be futile, Batarians were biologically stronger than Humans, at least one and a half times so, so after enough effort, he tossed Jillian from his back, and slammed her onto the ground.

A pistol was produced, and aimed at Jillian's head, "you… Will _regret that… _Human!" He said, as his finger squeezed the trigger.

His efforts were halted when Jillian swept his legs out from underneath him. Jillian didn't waste a moment in attempting to get back to her feet, but unlike soldiers who could do the same feat in moments, she wasted precious seconds as her previous appointment with the ground caught up with her. She looked at the Master, who was in a similar state as she. She saw, past his wheezing attempts to regain his lost breath, that his grip on his gun was slack. Seizing her chance, Jillian leapt for the gun, and when the master realized it had left his hands, he activated his omni-tool and tried to utilize Jillian's kill-switch. The Human, unfortunately for him, was too fast and ended his attempts with two slugs from the mass accelerator weapon.

Jillian, breathing heavily, fell back on her hands. What registered in her mind wasn't the fact that she'd killed someone - if anyone in the galaxy, this man in particular had to die - but the fact that she now had a genuine chance at escaping to the life she led mere days ago. For several minutes she found herself formulating a plan to escape, but eventually decided that it would be best if she simply improvised it, as the best-laid plans were never so. So, deciding her first step should be to remove her collar, she looked at the master to see if he had some sort of key. What she found was his omni-tool, which she slipped onto her wrist and, after it acclimated to her translator, found - with a glaring bluntness - two buttons on its gelatinous holographic surface: detonate, and disarm.

Tentatively she pressed disarm, and after a loud metallic 'click', she felt the collar drop off of her neck. Words could not properly convey the indescribably gleeful feelings running through Jillian's mind as it registered that her life was hers again, not the whim of a button on the holographic surface of a gadget owned by an overweight Batarian bastard with too many wives.

Now armed with a gun and an omni-tool, Jillian strode back into the house. Thankful that the other masters were out at the store, it took Jillian no time at all to find Saira, who was dutifully folding the mattresses on one of the Master's wive's beds. Saira looked up at Jillian innocently, eyes wide but expression respectfully blank, as if expecting the Human to deliver orders from the master.

Much to the contrary, Jillian spoke bluntly, "Saira, we're going."

"What does the master require?" The centuries-old slave asked, blinking her large green eyes, conveying a sense of raw dedication to her job.

"He doesn't matter now, we need to go." She heard in the distance the sonic-booms that were the telltale signs of fightercraft breaking the sound barrier, Jillian knew that they had to get going _immediately_, lest they get stuck in a warzone.

"The master... Doesn't _matter?"_ The Asari repeated slowly, "oh, Jillian, please pray he did not hear that!" The ancient being said, her face conveying a horrified look as she brought Jillian into a tight embrace.

Much as Jillian liked the feeling of friendly contact, she pushed herself away from Saira. "No, trust me Saira, we've got to go, we're leaving."

"Did the master say he needed supplies?"

"No, we're going to freedom."

"Were we sold? Did I do something -"

"Saira, you're not listening to me!" Jillian said, raising her hands and speaking clearly, "we, are, escaping!"

The Asari reacted quickly and violently, her hand whipped through the air and impacted with Jillian's face with a loud clap. "Jillian how could you speak in such ways?" Saira demanded, a horrified look etched into her face, "escape is..." She paused, her horrified expression becoming one of intense concern, "where will you go, Human? You cannot truly escape the Master, it is impossible."

Holding her stinging cheek, Jillian briefly considered simply leaving the Asari, but she looked at her for a moment as she thought so. The Asari looked a special kind of pathetic, garbed in what equated to years old leather _rags,_ with the only new piece of clothing being her shoes, though even they were several years old. Jillian knew she couldn't live with herself if she let her stay here, locked in her illusion of a good life.

_Slavery isn't a life..._ Jillian thought, as an idea popped into her head.

"I'm... Sorry... I was thinking aloud." Jillian said slowly, as she carefully chose her next words. "But the... Master told me to tell you that we have to... Go on a trip."

This wiped the concerned expression from Saira's face, as she innocently accepted anything that was told to her at face value, as long as the words 'The Master Said To' preceded it. "Where are we going?"

"He said I couldn't tell you... But you have to follow me." Jillian extended her hand, and added, pleadingly, "please?"

* * *

><p>Sergeant Joseph 'Geronimo' Whitley was stuck.<p>

It was embarrassing beyond belief, but the veteran Orbital Dropping Death Dealer was. A Batarian ship had exploded in-atmosphere, a few hundred meters from his drop pod, and the shockwave had sent it veering off course. He was happy that the inertial dampeners hadn't been fried by the Eezo Core's explosion, which acted as an Electro Magnetic Pulse when detonated, or vented after a sufficient charge. The detonation had changed his landing course violently, he was stuck tightly on a _building,_ or, _inside_ a building would be the better term. He was stuck inside a building, with his Orbital Insertion Vehicle's primary exit being blocked, wholesale, by a pile of rubble, and the secondary exit malfunctioning enough that it wouldn't work automatically, and due to the dents in the Pod's armor and casing, it was incredibly hard to maneuver, and thus, next to impossible for Whitley to manually deploy the secondary exit.

He'd heard reports from his squad, they'd seen his landing zone - his shields had saved his Powered Infantry Assault Armor's systems - and were fighting through the sky-scraper sized building that he'd landed in, but it was _huge,_ and despite them working, his squad mates had taken the stairs, due to the fact that rumors of the Council's 'Turtle Elevators' were believed by the squad's second in command.

So, in short, he was _stuck._ And he couldn't do a thing about it.

"It went over here, Sior! I'm sure of it!" Whitley heard.

_Fuck._ He thought, as he tried again to create room, so he could turn around and deploy the secondary exit.

"Wait for _me_, damn you!" Shouted another voice, this one was lighter, but sounded more harsh than the first, Whitley allowed himself a moment to wonder if it was a female Batarian.

"No! Do you _know_ how rare it is to obtain Human Technology? Imagine how much money we can make, after the Hegemony pushes them from our space!" The first voice declared, "here it is! I see it… _Haha! _It crashed into Sianan's office!" The Batarian laughed.

"Gods… It _actually is_ a Human!" Said the female, "I think I've read of this before… An… Orbital Batallion Storm Trooper!" She said, loudly, Whitley had to suppress a loud retort.

One of the Batarians knocked on the Insertion Vehicle, Whitley froze, "are you _alive_ in there?!" Demanded the female, "we're here to… 'Help' you!" She said, Joseph heard the male snigger, before being silenced by a smack from the female. "Say something, if you can hear us!" She demanded.

Whitley remained silent, "perhaps it died on reentry?" Suggested the male.

"No, you fool, the Storm Troopers are _trained_ to drop from orbit, and their vehicles are _designed _to protect them!" The female declared, "if he's dead, I'll give you my hand cannon." She said, angrily.

_Two Batarians… At least one is armed…_ Whitley noted.

"I think that's an opening!" Said the male, Whitley assumed that he was pointing to the secondary exit.

_Go ahead… Open the god damned thing and make my day!_ Thought Whitley angrily, as he slowly - and silently - reached for his sidearm, which was magnetically attached to his right thigh. It was his own personal Special Forces Pistol, fully loaded with a sixteen magnum round magazine.

"Well… Okay… You open it… I'll cover you." The female ordered the male, to Whitley's glee.

His fist clenched the SFP, just as he heard the latches hiss on the Insertion Vehicle.

_"__Gods!_ This thing is stuck tight!" Shouted the male, as he pulled on the secondary exit.

"Pull _harder,_ you good-for-nothing pile of meat!" Shouted the woman.

The man roared with the effort of pulling the exit open, and finally did so. It sprang open with a loud 'clang!', and Whitley literally leapt into action. He jumped out of the pod - which, to his satisfaction, was actually hanging from an elevated position, giving him an ally in the form of gravity - and his left hand closed around the male's throat. The male's skin was a pale, almost sickly shade of yellow, and his throat was at least one and a half times thicker than a Human's, but Whitley still managed to pin the Batarian to the ground. With his hand crushing the alien's windpipe, effectively keeping the alien neutralized, Whitley whipped out his pistol and aimed it at the female, who pulled the trigger twice - but only received two horrifying 'clicks' in response - before he put two between both sets of her eyes. The magnum rounds cascaded through her head and turned whatever was left of the vaguely cranial shape, into mush. She went down with a sickening 'splat', and just a moment later the male's neck broke with a wet-sounding 'snap'.

Whitley got to his feet and simultaneously checked his motion tracker, and his surroundings. On the former, he saw only himself, and on the latter, he saw the dark gray visage of the office building he'd slammed into. He'd been briefed that several N7 Squads had been inserted using the still-in-development 'Warp Insertion' method of deployment, and had set up at least two dozen EMP Spires, which, when they received a signal from any of the Alliance's many fleets, would activate and unleash a brutal, non-discriminatory Electro Magnetic Pulse all over the planet. Had the N7 Armor, the OD3's PIAA Armor, and essentially any other Alliance Military Device not been EMP Hardened, they too would have been affected by the pulse, but they all were, so they weren't, and they'd given the Alliance an immense advantage: The entire planet was without power, and the only weapons that would work would be the Military's.

Whitley had loved that about the Council's Mass Effect weaponry, they needed power to charge the Element Zero positively, so they could shave off the sand-grain sized metal pellets that would be accelerated by the mass-reducing Element Zero. But, without the power that was required for the Eezo Charge, the weapons were rifle and pistol-shaped paper weights. That was what the Female Batarian had learned in the last half second of her life, before Whitley had ended her with two well placed shots.

"This is 1-1 Actual, broadcasting on all Alliance Channels. Dagger 1-2, sitrep." He called into the radio, as he walked to the Insertion Vehicle.

_"__Sergeant? Is that you?"_ Called his second-in-command.

"That's right Corporal." Said Whitley, as he retrieved his assault rifle from the vehicle, and grabbed the few spare magazines that had been tucked away in a corner, only to find two of them broken, and empty of all ammunition. He shook his head and packed the one that made it in his tac-vest, before he chambered a round in his rifle. "Sitrep." He repeated.

_"__We're on our way up to you now, Sarge!"_ The Corporal reported, _"__AI says we've got maybe six floors to go!" _

"Take a breather and hold your position, new elements have entered the playing field and I've been released from the OIV." The Sergeant ordered.

And with that, the fatigue that had no doubt been welling up in the corporal showed through, _"copy that Sarge, you okay?"_ He asked.

"Fit as a fiddle. Stay frosty, I'm moving out." Whitley responded, after he entered in the codes for the OIV to self destruct, and then ran as fast as he could to the stairwell. "And cover your heads, OIV's gonna blow… Dagger 1-1 Actual out." He added.

As he thundered down the stairwell, Whitley went over his objectives. He and Dagger Squad had been ordered to strike at the heart of the city, they were to take out the Police Force and anyone who raised a rifle at them, but _any_ non-Batarians, be they combatants or otherwise, were to be taken down non-lethally. So, simply put, the Alliance was here to kill Batarians, and save aliens, be they Salarian, Turian, Human, Quarian, Asari or even Batarian slaves. Whitley - and the Alliance - were quite thankful of the Batarian pride, and their need to degrade their slaves, as the Alliance had learned from their excursions into Batarian Intelligence, that the Hegemony's slaves were all forced to wear iron collars, to mark their status. So the Alliance's job was simple: If they shoot you and they aren't wearing a collar, kill them; but if they shoot you and they are wearing a collar, restrain them.

_No collars are bad, Collars are good._ Thought Whitley, before the building shook violently when the OIV detonated.

* * *

><p>The battle for the Batarian world, Siler's void-space, could not have gone more perfectly, if Admiral Hans Griebun were to be perfectly clear with himself. He was sitting in the CIC of the sixth fleet's flagship, the <em>Sol's Fury,<em> as it hung back with the Dreadnoughts and Frigates, all of whom were firing upon enemy targets from the farthest edges of the system's borders. The Carriers had already made their way into the thick of things with the Destroyers, seeing as how both of their primary roles in naval warfare involved closer combat. Frigates, Dreadnoughts, and Flagships, they were all long-range fighters, as common naval tactics had dictated since the beginning of warfare at sea. Frigates used their advanced numbers to swarm and protect Dreadnoughts and Flagships, and brutalize enemy ships. But their Rail Guns, their main cannons, they were _nothing_ compared to the Dreadnoughts that had done the brunt of the long-range work.

Human Naval weaponry operated on a simple, magnetically accelerated principal. The Humans of the Systems Alliance hadn't evolved next to Element Zero, so when the time came to arm their space ships, they simply _couldn't_ make Mass Accelerator weaponry. So to make up for this, the Humans made _Magnetic _Accelerator weaponry. The Alliance Navy's Rail Guns were able to launch tungsten slugs, weighing in at around six and a half, to seven meters long, and one and a half meters wide, all weighing in at six hundred twelve tons each, at a minimum of thirty six thousand meters per second. Rail Guns also varied in speed, as ship size increased, Frigates had the lowest speed, at thirty six thousand meters per second, while Destroyers could reach forty one thousand, and Flagships could reach forty six thousand; but Dreadnoughts, such as the ones currently blanketing the Batarian ships in the system, and Orbital Defense Platforms, such as the ones protecting Earth, Valhalla, Eden, and the lone platform above Elysium, they were the unique factor in every naval engagement.

Alliance Dreadnoughts were, in essence, mobile ODP platforms. The Dreadnought could get their much heavier slugs, weighing in at two thousand, six hundred twelve tons, moving at speeds of a current maximum of five percent the speed of light, or nearly fifteen million meters per second. The Orbital Defense Platforms defending Earth - the most advanced, powerful, and up to date ODP platforms in Alliance Space -, on the other hand, could get projectiles moving to approximately ten percent the speed of light, or nearly thirty million meters per second, with energy donated from the antimatter _and_ fusion reactors on the planet below them. By comparison, the most modern, up-to-date, and advanced ship in the Citadel's navy, the 'Destiny Ascension', could fire its projectile at two percent of the speed of light, almost six million meters per second.

The Alliance's Magnetically Accelerated Arsenal was, aside from raw nuclear power, and their Antimatter Particle Weaponry, the single most brutal force Man and Quarian could bring to bear upon their enemies; and while the Destroyers and carriers in the system ahead of them did not have the power and energy of their cousins in the Blank Space behind them, the Flagships and the Dreadnoughts, they were frighteningly powerful in their own rights. The Frigate _alone_ could level a decently sized city with a single, fully charged shot, whereas a Destroyer could scar several miles with its own series of cannons.

So Admiral Griebun smiled wide as he heard reports of fleet-wide Dreadnought fire. In mere seconds, over a hundred enemy ships in the system disappeared off the map. At this rate, Griebun knew, they would not have to even consider using their Antimatter weaponry. A few moments passed before reports came in that Frigate fire joined the dreadnoughts, and seconds after that dozens more enemy ships fell. Griebun soon heard that the Batarians had all but decided to ignore the ships that were far too far out of their range, and instead decided to focus on hitting the Alliance's Carriers and Destroyers.

Griebun, and everyone in the room, knew it was a horrible mistake. Alliance Craft Carriers alone, were game-changers in the Galactic Naval situation. No species out there seemed to understand what the point of a ship was, whose primary weapon were fighter-craft and men. But during the Second Contact War, and the Mercenary Wars, the Humans had silenced the Galaxy by showing them all exactly how effective thousands of fighters, bombers, and shuttle-craft could be, if they were suddenly introduced to the battlefield. The fighters and bombers were _more_ than plentiful enough to simultaneously protect their Carrier ships, and attack the enemy vessels. The fighters conducted intense strafe runs on the enemy ships' main engines, crippling the vessels, while the bombers dropped enormous explosive incendiary devices on the ships, which would quickly overwhelm their shields and destroy them. That, coupled with the thousands of shuttle-craft that could deploy _tens_ of thousands of Alliance Marines, and the thousands of OIV's that could deploy Orbital Dropping Death Dealers, a single, lone Alliance Craft Carrier was a force to be reckoned with. But, of course, the Humans hadn't stopped there, their second big blindside was currently at work, making _short_ work of the idiotic Batarians who were refusing to abandon the system or surrender.

The Alliance's Destroyers were meant to _break_ the rules of organized Naval Warfare. Even when compared to Dreadnoughts and Flagships, both of which had such thick and such powerful armor, and such brutal and deflective energy shields, that even Alliance-Issued Rail Guns had difficulty piercing it, the Destroyer had mighty protective, devastatingly thick, and horrifyingly powerful armor and shields. This was to compliment the Destroyer's main function: Flank, Suppress, and Kill. It came equipped with six broadside Rail Guns, three on each side, which turned to five for each side if the rotateable deck guns could get a shot.

These 'knife fight' tactics put the ship itself at risk, but this was where warp technology came into play, the Destroyer's warp drive was capable of creating four entrance and exit points, simultaneously. Essentially, the ship warped in right next to its target, and tore it apart with conventionally and magnetically accelerated weapons fire, and then warped back to safe, 'conventional' ranges, before the enemy ship could have time to react and counter attack. The Second Contact War, the Rebellion, and most prominently the Mercenary Wars, had raised the issue of Enemy Destroyers, or enemy broadside-weaponry doing the same to the Alliance, but the Alliance had solved this problem blindingly quickly by turning Space against their. Instead of going at the waterless 'sea' with a wet-navy, terrestrial mindset, the Destroyer warped in right underneath the enemy ships, giving it the appearance of being sideways, and underneath the ship, if one looked at it from the enemy's front, but it also gave the Alliance their advantage: No Human, no Quarian, no Turian, no _warship_, of any kind, could hook weapons onto their ships' bellies, doing so removed the possibility of having to make emergency landings on terra firma.

All of this combined made the Alliance Navy tie with the Citadel Navy in terms of raw power. The Alliance Navy stood tall at over twenty five thousand vessels, far more than the Batarian Navy's fifteen thousand, and three thousand less than the Turian's twenty eight thousand. The Alliance was still outnumbered by the Citadel's combined naval might of fifty two thousand ships, though that number was with _every_ Citadel species, including the client races, which did include the Batarian Hegemony's navy, which was the fourth largest of them all, all contributing their entire navy to the fight. All of the Alliance's naval power had, before this day, been brought to bear in simply defending their borders and their colonies, and attacking their enemies the rebels; but now, almost the entire might of the Human Systems Alliance's naval war machine was being brought to bear upon the Batarian Hegemony. The part that made the Admiral smile widest was that his fleet, the sixth, was the smallest of them _all._ It had barely six thousand ships. He shuddered to think what would be happening at Heflio, the Batarian world said to have the biggest Human slave population of them all, seeing as how that planet and its system would be under siege by the largest Alliance fleet in history, and in its current existence, the first fleet, which weighed in at over ten thousand, six hundred twelve ships. All six fleets were all assaulting the six Batarian worlds reported to have Human slaves; Griebun noted with a sense of slight irony that there were _only_ six planets reported with Humans upon them, just enough to have one Alliance Fleet assault each one, and still have their more 'special' fleets, those being the ones dedicated to stealth, Tuning Armor, and SIGMA Transport, dedicated to the more 'sensitive' operations, such as paving the way for the ground invasions of the four remaining planets yet to come under Human/Quarian attack.

"Sir!" Reported a crewman, cutting the silence that had permeated the ship for the frighteningly long fifteen minutes. "All ships reporting in, the system's ours!" She called out.

Griebun smiled widely, "Gretel, casualties?"

_"__We lost six frigates, and two destroyers. A carrier and three more destroyers all report varying degrees of damage, but are still fit for duty. We're already sending out rescue shuttles to look for survivors of the lost ships." _Reported the synthetic voice of the ship's AI.

"Good." Griebun said, sitting back with a contented sigh. "The remaining Carriers are clear to enter planetary orbit, and to deploy their marines and OD3 forces. I want battle group Charlie working on freezing the system, and battle groups Alpha, Bravo, Delta, and Echo all moving out into patrol patterns. I want us spread out so any stragglers can be found and dealt with." He ordered, "engineering, you are clear to deploy the DS/C."

Alliance Deep Space/Communications Satellites were, in essence, portable slices of Alliance Territory. They were about as big as a house - but still nowhere near large enough to become an inconvenience on the three and a half kilometer long Alliance Flagship - and they collected any piece of data they could find. Setting one up extended the Alliance's area of influence, made communications _far_ easier, and made scanning unknown systems and planets a breeze. Alliance DS/C's could - and _have -_ find objects as small as a truck, that were in orbit around a planet the size of Earth's star, Sol. They gathered data at blinding speeds - thanks to a collective four AI's working at Artificial Speeds - and in hours could tell you how many planetary objects were in a system, what the projected age of the system's star was, and could give an estimate as to what the orbital pattern of any planets in the Goldilocks Zone was. In addition, it also provided an instant connection to Arcturus Station, the Alliance's capital, so communications could be made, reports filed, and orders received or changed. They were all-in-one satellites, and if they ever were threatened to be captured by an enemy, they could vent a half pound of antimatter, vaporizing the satellite, and if they were lucky, the enemy too.

"Deep Space/Communications Satellite…" A voice from the engineering deck reported, "away. We're already getting scans from the system, I think we're already winning, sir." The engineer chuckled.

_This will be a short war, should things continue like this._ The Admiral thought, as his eyes scanned over the holographic display in front of him.

"Send in the Marines."


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

* * *

><p><em>Mankind has had ten thousand years experience of warfare and if he must fight he has no excuse for not fighting well. <em>

— _**T.E. Lawrence**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>April 1st , 2216<strong>_

* * *

><p>"I find it hard to believe, Mister McGraw." The ancient being said, slowly, as she digested what the Human before her said. "Your theory relies upon an event personified... You are taking a rather romanticized, and... Perhaps... Biased, and closed-minded... Approach to this."<p>

Christopher McGraw grinned a lopsid grin as Matriarch Benezia T'Soni spoke to him. "Go on."

"What I mean to say is that it is quite foolish to believe that your entire species' culture and evolution is dictated by a... Deity, so to speak, personifying a romanticized event." She continued, "it would be like saying the Asari evolve on a technological scale, so quickly, because some ancient deity is guiding us to have a proclivity towards it."

"Oh no, that's the Salarians." McGraw rebutted, "you want to look at you people... I'd say you were evolved around sex." He paused a moment, and looked Benezia over. "Yeah." He nodded, "sex."

"I -"

"And the Turians would probably have been evolved from Honor. Unification Wars being an example, Palaven had to defend its honor so it defeated the colonies, and created the Hierarchy we all know and love today." He said, with a shrug. "But you distract me, from my main point."

"That Salarians were guided by a personified -" The blue-skinned woman was cut off by the pale skinned Human.

"And romanticized!" He said, holding up a finger, before using the same hand to make a pass through his unkempt hair.

"And romanticized technology deity. And the Turians were guided by Honor, the Asari by Sex... And Humans by War." The Matriarch made a mental note to pursue McGraw's reasoning behind the 'reason' for Asari evolution. "I cannot help but wonder what makes you think you are right."

"Well, there's a religion out there that worships a seven armed goddess." Chris shrugged, "just because I say I believe it doesn't make me right or wrong."

"Do you believe yourself?" Benezia couldn't help but ask.

"No." Chris said simply, "but it's fun to look at things like that. It puts things into perspective. Remind me to talk to you about the cult of six-one-two, fun story, that."

"You do not believe your own words and yet you still speak them... I was raised by the Regius' ancient philosophies, everything is precious and nothing should be wasted... Words included." She said slowly, as if she were speaking to a child.

"Yeah? Well I was raised by a scientist who didn't believe in god, so you can kind of see why I preach this stuff." Chris deadpanned.

Benezia nodded as she took a sip of wine. She thought of McGraw's words, not spending far too much time trying to make sense of them. One thing she had learned during their frequent luncheons aboard the Citadel was that, alone, Christopher McGraw's words could not make sense. Very little of what the scientist said could make sense on its own, not unless one stuck around for the words that would explain it. One infamous example of this had been when they had been speaking of the similarities among the reproductive cycles of species, and one Salarian/Human couple had accidentally been privy to a point that had begun with the words 'Mammals lay no eggs, they bleed them, preferably once a month and while making any Man's life a living hell.'.

Thinking upon that made Benezia ponder the exact nature of how she'd come to be a part of these lunches. That day they had first met, she had stumbled across him in this very cafe. They had gotten to speaking, and never again, afterwards, had she found herself so intellectually stimulated by a Human. Soon after the two met again, and after a year these lunches had become a bimonthly meeting.

Setting the glass down, Benezia spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. "I still must comment upon the wisdom - or lack thereof - of believing that a personified event dictates an entire race's advancement." She paused, "it makes little sense."

"Religion never _does._" McGraw's smile turned to a grin, as his eyes followed the two new C-Sec officers that had entered the café. McGraw chuckled faintly to himself, even in alien territory, his reputation for making things that blew up preceded him, mostly in the form of precautionary law enforcement agents. "Think about it. All throughout our history, our advancements have been dictated by war. War taught us to make sticks into spears so we could war with the animals, to fight for simple survival. War taught us to make steel and leather to fight neighboring tribes and coalitions to protect our lands. War taught us how to _make_ tribes and coalitions, because stronger enemies required unified numbers and peoples to prevail." He explained, "then, War taught us to make technology, when raw numbers weren't doing anything except get legions of us killed, because we had become so good with what we had at that point, that our people were equally matched." His grin was becoming unnerving for the Matriarch at this point, but centuries of experience disallowed her face to betray her inner thoughts. "Then, when our old tactics failed to mesh up with our guns, we made new tactics. War taught us that to continue to survive as we were, we needed better technology. So we made cars, planes radios, computers, nuclear weapons, tanks, ships, missiles." He listed them all off in rapid-fire, as if he'd had it all memorized. "But even then, they proved not enough. War told us, through what we called 'the cold war', that we needed _more!_ We needed to control the stars. But we couldn't do it, at least, not initially, with Men. So we made machines, and those machines were dictated by War to evolve into _War_ Machines, capable of delivering and using the weapons we did, in a more 'expendable' way. After we conquered machine, War taught us that to stay on Earth would prove our undoing, through World War Three."

"The one where you used nuclear weapons upon yourselves?" Benezia clarified.

"The _second_ one." He said, "so War told us that to stay on Earth would prove our undoing. So we sought to conquer _Space._ But even then, War told us that we could not protect ourselves in Space without Armies. It did that through the Second Contact War. But we didn't find challenge enough in the Turians, we put our Human versus Human mindset upon them, and made energy shields, annihilation weaponry, super soldiers. We _brutalized_ the Turians with these inventions. So War taught us of scare tactics, make a big entry with a scary face, and no one will mess with you." The Human explained, "then -"

"Your _Sarailia, _mister McGraw." Said the kind Asari waitress, as she laid a plate with a light-blue steak upon it, in front of the Human.

"Oh, thank god!" Chris said heartily, "I've been waiting for this thing, Tira! Steaks don't compare!"

The Asari smiled warmly, "you said that the last time too, sir."

"And I fuckin' _meant it_ last time!" McGraw chuckled, and after she left, he continued his conversation. "Back to what I was saying." He cut into the Asari steak, "then War told us that simply having power won't do much. But our power had grown too great for War to contain, seeing as how we took down a dozen mercenary organizations in about a year." He explained, "So War, as it desperately sought a new lesson to teach us, placed our focus on the only enemy that could actually satiate us, the only enemy that could equal us in ferocity: Ourselves." He took a bite, and with his mouth full, prodded Benezia to continue the conversation, "so now we're fighting Batarians. What do you think War's trying to teach us _now?"_

Benezia thought for a moment, "to defend your ideals, no matter the enemy?"

McGraw made a buzzing noise with his mouth, "guess again."

Another pause, "to… Keep your promises?"

"Give up?" McGraw smiled, as he swallowed the steak, reveling in its spicy-sweet taste, and juicy texture. "War is trying to teach us something it already _has._ We are the only opponents that can keep up with ourselves. It's been one damn day, and already we've obliterated one planet's navy, and we're working five other's. Two of the ones in question are the weaker planets, yes, but we're still working on the three strongest, and we're already _burning _through Batarian defenses on the ground, on the planet we've isolated." He paused, "war is the only reason we've been progressing as we have. It dictates anything and everything we do. Humanity, the Systems Alliance, we cannot _function_ outside of war. The Quarians have already figured out, and you _know_ how bad their soldiers are, coming home."

"No, I did not." This was something few people, Benezia included, actually knew; she'd heard rumors, but the finer aspects of Alliance life were kept within the Alliance.

"We're too much for 'em. Our wars are brutal in ways they haven't seen since their Geth Rebellion, which was literal _centuries_ ago!" And the man wasn't lying, more Quarian soldiers had suffered from Post Traumatic Stress-Disorders in their time in the Alliance, than they had in the entire era of the Migrant Fleet. Some Quarian soldiers had even called even the _smallest_ of Human conflicts 'demonic', and had said that they only knew the definition of 'hell' after experiencing a Human War. Many in the Citadel Council did not believe them, save for the veterans of the Second Contact War, but even then, there were so few Turian _survivors_ of said war, that had seen action against the Humans, that their voice was a small minority at best.

One Quarian in particular, a veteran of the Second Contact War, the Mercenary Wars, and several engagements in the Rebellion, had summed up his entire experience in the Alliance Military with merely a single phrase. "If you want to know peace, you speak to an Asari. If you want to know intelligence, you speak to a Salarian. If you want to know militarism, you speak to a Turian. If you want to know _war,_ to know _Hell,_ and to know all that makes one the exact definition of the other, you speak to one of the warriors of the Human Race."

"I have not heard of these sentiments…" Benezia mentioned.

"That's because the pansies in the Board of Directors want the Galaxy to see Humanity in the greatest light possible. Have you noticed how nearly every Alliance breakthrough is heralded as a _Human_ breakthrough? The only reason Quarians are still on the map is because we made one a Director, but even then, that's not much." McGraw was referring to the Director for Quarian Affairs, Hera'Zight vas Arcturus Station nar Osugnai. She had gained Directorhood and kept it in the months following the Second Contact War, and her opinion certainly held sway over both the Humans in the Board, and the Admirals of the Quarian Admiralty board, but in the end she was seen more as a 'necessary evil' than an equal, by the other directors. "The Directors want to show the Galaxy, falsely, I'll add, but still, they want to show them that we can go from Diplomats to Warriors at the change of a hat, and then from Warriors to Diplomats at the ejection of a magazine." He explained, "but I'm getting off topic. What do you think it's going to _give us,_ because of this war?"

"I could not even guess…" Said the Matriarch, as the Human's smart watch pinged, signaling he had a message.

"Neither can I. And _that's_ what excites me." He smiled widely, "this war, compared to the other ones, is going to be _easy. _Our boys, and I can state this confidently, _will_ be home in time for Christmas. But easy wars are never, this is just the beginning, there's a storm coming, Matriarch, and the Batarians are only the first step." He said with a grin, before he went to check his watch. His grin was wiped away when he saw the sender, it was not his friend Harper, informing him of operation VANGUARD 01, nor was it an informant from his cell. In fact, the name of the sender _alone_ was what caused McGraw to get to his feet abruptly. "I'll have to cut this short. Business." He said, hurriedly, as he whipped down with his cybernetic arm, and grabbed his messenger's bag.

"What?" Benezia looked up, slightly alarmed, "why, if I may ask?" She looked at him curiously, already considering ways to extend his presence.

"Important stuff, lady." McGraw said quickly, slapping a credit chit on the table.

"But, McGraw, if you leave -" Again she was interrupted.

"Can't stay, I've got to go, no -"

"Have you considered _why_ exactly the Batarians targeted the Alliance?"

McGraw paused, he had just turned to face away from her, his cybernetic hand hadn't yet let go of the seat he'd pushed back against the table. He looked back at Benezia for a moment, his one visible eye wide, the pupil dilated. Benezia silently swore to herself that the emotion she was seeing in McGraw's eye was that of panic, fear, and perhaps determination, but her gaze was stolen by the sound of metal grinding upon metal. Startled, she looked down and saw that McGraw's literally steel grip had dented the chair he'd been holding onto. She looked back at McGraw, whose eyes looked less urgent, as if he'd figured out in that split second that whatever had put fear in him was unfounded.

"Yes. I have. And you would _not_ believe what I came up with to explain it." He stated simply, his voice holding not hints, but an outright tone of seriousness the likes of which she had never heard of before. He looked down at the dent his hand made in the chair and released it, staring at the dent for a moment before he looked back to the Asari. "Now if you'll excuse me, Matriarch, I'll be off." The sudden urgency in his voice was lost upon her.

Quickly, the infamous Human made his way to the nearest Rapid Transit hub. The message was too sensitive to open on the Citadel, so after he took the fifteen minutes to travel to his ship, and program it with a junk-warp destination, he sat down gingerly in his quarters, feeling the ship catapult itself forward and over the wards, at speeds so blinding that few could actually dedicate the mind-power to quantifying how fast he was going.

The message's sender was a simple, _MLaws09._ McGraw knew that the sender in question _only_ had eight Alliance Mail accounts, and one private one she had set up a month after her trip to Sparta. The only reason McGraw knew about it was because of his informant in the Lawson household, who had gained the trust of the young teen.

The message was short, and simple.

_I know what I need to. _

_Get me connected to Sparta. You know which one I'm looking for._

_Get me an opportunity. _

_I want in._

_On my terms._

_- Miranda Lawson._

Chris smiled, it had taken her six months longer than he had expected, but she pulled through in the end, just like he'd planned.

He logged into his Cerberus account. Gladys, Harper, and over a dozen advanced Artificial Intelligences had worked to make this email account the most secure in Alliance Space. His response was less short, but simple as well.

_You make a date, I'll bring the cake._

_If we're thinking of the same guy, it'll take me at least 2.16 hours to get you that connection. _

_An opportunity will present itself, you're actually right on time for a perfect one, provided you get the information from your Friend. _

_You'll have to open the door, if you really want to get in. _

_Your terms are the only ones you can live by, remember that. _

_- The Intuitive Man._

"Gladys, cut-warp."

_"__But Chris, we have not reached -"_

"Gladys…"

_"__Cutting Warp."_

A few moments later the ship decelerated as it reentered real space. McGraw sent the message a few moments later. One advantage of the Warp was that it could make active scans of Real Space, as the ship flew through Warp Space. Warp Physics was still a largely untested branch of science, because the Warp Dimension was an incredible unknown to the Human Race. They knew not exactly _how_ the Warp functioned as it did, _how_ it sped up ships to blindingly faster than light speeds, or _why_ they could still make active scans of the galaxy and solar systems around them, as they were traveling through what was essentially another dimension entirely. They _did_ know, however, that going through Warp Space cut off communications entirely. The Alliance Advancement Task Force had tried setting up DS/C Satellites in the Warp, but they had never heard from them again, even over a century after deploying them. The Warp, despite being the Human Race's biggest advantage, was also the Humans' biggest weakness, due to the simple fact that they knew barely _anything_ about it.

McGraw was shaken from his thoughts with a new message.

_I've got a plan, I just need help. I don't trust anyone in this house, and before you ask like I know you are going to, the only reason I've contacted _you _is because someone gave me the tools - shall we say - to find the path I had to follow. _

…

_And because you can get me the connection to Sparta I couldn't get otherwise._

McGraw got the hint. Before he attached a complex series of files and programs to the message, he simply wrote:

_Good for one time only._

_If you convince him, he'll work out the second time._

* * *

><p>On the Batarian world, Siler, Jillian Sampson couldn't have been more terrified if a SIGMA Operative had shown up at her home with a mean look, and a license to kill. Unconscious, a few feet behind her, lied Saira, her Asari friend. The two had taken refuge in an abandoned building, thinking it a good place for a night's rest.<p>

Oh, how Jillian regretted this decision, now that morning had hit.

Overnight, the Alliance had decided it was time to make a huge, violent push for more territory on Siler. The Batarian forces had caught wind of this, and had set up camp a mere dozen blocks to the abandoned, evacuated district's west. The Admiral in charge of the assault must have wanted to go for shock-and-awe, because Jillian had been awoken by the text-book definition of an Alliance stacked invasion: First came the OD3's, then the Marines, then the Army, which - according to the radio waves Jillian had hacked her way in to, thanks to the insipid drills and lessons her father had given her, that she had never been so thankful for - had arrived just that morning, bringing literally hundreds of thousands, if not just over a million, fresh-faced Human and Quarian warriors, ready to fight. That, bolstered by the Marine, OD3, and rumored SIGMA and N7 reinforcements that had come with orbital/spatial supremacy, meant the Batarian Military on Siler was in for a rude awakening.

Now, it was barely past sunrise, and the war for this small section for Siler was in full swing. Jillian's father was a Death Dealer, she knew how hard he fought for simple things, like who she dated, or the right for a morning shower, or the keys to a car, so she knew that the OD3's, the Marines, and the Soldiers would all be fighting to claim every single _inch_ of this planet. Her preconceptions were proven everything _but_ wrong simply by looking at the battlefield two stories below her.

There were, effectively, two lines and a no-man's land, that was shrinking in size by the minute. The western line consisted of Batarians and Slave-Soldiers, they fought with Mass Accelerated weaponry and their infantry fighting vehicles. The IFV's launched hyper-accelerated slugs at the Human offensive line, but Human MSG's - Massive Shield Generators - took the brunt of the blows, before they would shatter, and whatever force was left hit only slightly worse than a brick thrown by a professional MLB player. The Batarians fought with their take-no-prisoners weapons, which were designed as advertised, they did so much raw damage to their enemies, that they weren't _supposed_ to be used to take prisoners. The infantry and tank weapons had taken out their fair share of Human and Quarian forces, and the results were not pretty. Cellular fluid could perform miraculous medical feats, especially modern Cell Fluid, but it could not regrow limbs, create new organs, or heal brain damage. That was what the Batarian weapons did to the Alliance forces, if the limb wasn't violently torn off of its owner's body, the projectile tore into the body on one end, and exploded out like a cannonball on the other end. Jillian knew, Allied forces wouldn't be taking many wounded home with them, these weren't Human Bullets, or Mercenary Mass Effect Slugs, they didn't pierce through, or expand, flatten, and shatter within. They practically _exploded._

But, of course, the Humans gave their enemies no quarter, either. They fought back with tanks, gunships, and raw numbers. They all, Quarians included, used conventionally accelerated weapons, which left slightly noticeable trails in the ozone-smelling atmosphere. These bullet-guns made veritable walls of rifle fire that the Batarians couldn't pass. Their tanks, upon which the MSG's were hooked on to, were at the rear ranks, spitting high-explosive death on their enemies. The gunships were making strafe-runs on ground forces, and quick missile-locks on the enemy air forces, which couldn't even consider engaging ground targets, because the Alliance Air and Space Force's fighter-craft were brutalizing them in the air.

The differences in weapons and armor appearances weren't the only things that helped Jillian differentiate between the two sides, it was the tactics with which each side fought, and the discipline with which they did so, that helped Jillian differentiate between friend and foe. The Batarians were simply scrambling to hold their ground, and kill as many as they could. If one of their own fell, they were simply left there to die, be it by fighting still or by bleeding, it was up to the wounded warrior. But the Humans had begun using tactics adopted during the Mercenary Wars, it was, at its core, 'fight for the people, not the territory'. Alliance soldiers defended by evacuating civilians, destroying their own infrastructure, and making every attempt to kill enemies and _survive_ as they could. They evacuated each and every single wounded ally they could, and provided as much medical care as was possible. This proved not only to keep their numbers up with experienced soldiers, but it won the hearts and minds of the civilians, who would soon take up arms and fight _with_ the Alliance, instead of against it, or simply running from it.

They _attacked _by shock-and-awe, they moved in, and fought _only_ those who raised weapons upon them. They created 'safe zones', to which they evacuated any civilian in enemy territory. In these safe zones, the Alliance set up operating bases and care-centers, the primary concern was admittedly wounded allied soldiers, but everything that could be afforded to civilians, was. The Civilians in enemy territory were treated fairly, after being searched for weapons, and every affordance was made to help them, be it by simply providing a set of ears for the civilians to talk to, or by helping them find family. That helped the Alliance because soon, rumors would spread by word-of-mouth, and eventually the enemy's own civilians would be won to the Alliance's side, and the enemy forces would be fighting themselves as much as the Human and Quarian warriors.

But here in Siler, for the Batarian War, the Alliance had adopted a new doctrine: If they had an iron collar, they subdued them. And as the no-man's-land shrank even further, that was exactly what the Humans and Quarians were doing. They couldn't switch to non-lethal ammunition for the slaves, of course, but every chance they could take at simple incapacitation was taken, and when they could pull the soon-to-be former slaves back behind the Alliance's offensive line, they would try.

All of this ran through Sampson's mind as she watched the horrifying battle unfold in front of her. Humans and Quarians moved with deadly efficiency, seeming to flow into and out of battle, the Marines and Soldiers didn't care who was with who's squad, one would shift position just as another would replace him and ask for a situations' update, and then would proceed to get right into the thick of things. If Jillian would put it into her own words, it looked like the Alliance's offensive line was a flowing river, which had some pebbles in it that divided the flow, but didn't detract from the overall current. The Batarians, on the other hand, were a raging river that was desperately fighting against a fifteen-meter thick adamantine dam. Where the Humans flowed into the battle, helped anyone that wore their colors, and fought with deadly efficiency and brutal accuracy, the Batarians were fighting the flow of their own river. They slammed into each other, stumbled and tripped over each other, and were fighting themselves and their training, as much as they were fighting the Humans and Quarians a mere half dozen meters from them. The Batarians seemed practically _untrained,_ against the might of the Alliance War Machine.

Jillian lost herself in the battle, but was shaken back to reality when she heard deep voices shouting from within her building.

_Oh god!_ Thought the wide-eyed Human, she knew it was only a matter of time before one or the other tried to get the cover and height advantages the building offered. The flat, destroyed, bombed out, apocalyptic-like city-streets upon which they were fighting would only prove to be useful for so long, until someone wised up. From the tone of the voices she heard, it didn't sound like it was the Humans who had done the wising up.

Jillian had to think fast, she probably had _seconds_ before the Batarians got to her room. She knew shouting for help would do her no good, she couldn't hear herself think, above the noises of war, so the soldiers in the middle of it wouldn't hear her shouts. She saw what looked like a Batarian excuse for a book, and decided it was as good as anything. She grabbed the book and looked out the window, she spied a man in what she immediately recognized as the armor of an Orbital Dropping Death Dealer, and prayed his shields were full as she hurled the book at him. The shields were charged, thankfully, and the Dealer immediately slammed back into cover at the feeling of the book slamming into his head, and being violently deflected. The man looked up, his frosted, slivery-blue motorcycle helmet's visor snapped up to her, she wasted no time making the universal 'help me!' sign, she waved her hands as wide and as fast as she could. The Dealer got the idea, he tapped on the shoulder of his buddy, and pointed to the building. His buddy got the picture, and in seconds, the first dealer, the buddy, and an assortment of marines and soldiers were rushing, bent-over, into the building.

In seconds, the building too was filled with the sounds of gunfire. Jillian made a run for Saira, and shook her friend, trying to wake her. It was just as the door to Jillian's room slammed open, and she heard a Batarian battle cry, did the Asari awaken.

"What is -"

_"__YOU DARE INVADE MY PLANET, YOU WILL PAY HUMANS!" _The Batarian roared, as he fired wildly down the staircase he had just ascended.

There was a brief pause before the narrow staircase was then filled with Human bullets, and the Batarian's shields and armor were overwhelmed, and his chest was turned from taut, yellow skin, to oozing red hamburger meet. Another heartbeat's length of time passed before three Humans - all Marines - stormed into the room. Saira gasped loudly, drawing the attention of all three.

_"__Civilians!"_ One shouted, before his friends lifted their weapons to scan the rest of the room.

"Three windows! Elevated positions, -" His voice cut out for a split second "-_we need snipers in the marked position!"_ He said, bringing his hand to the side of his head.

"Get the slaves out of here!" The first voice shouted.

"Floor clear!" The third added late.

And just like that, a fourth soldier - this one in the powered exoskeleton that was Orbital Dropping Death Dealer armor - stormed into the room, saw the two, and pointed at the door with his rifle. _"__You two stay on my ass! If I move, you move! You listen to every word I say as if it were the word of God! Are we clear?!"_ He roared.

"We're clear!" Jillian brought Saira to her feet, and clasped her hand in hers.

_"__Then we move!"_ The OD3 shouted, motioning for the two to follow him.

Just as Saira, Jillian, and the OD3 descended the stairs, three other soldiers with large rifles stormed up them, no doubt to set up a sniper's nest. The OD3 ordered them to keep their heads down, that he'd get them behind a tank where they'd figure out where to go from there. A three second countdown to catch their breath and to synchronize their minds was all he afforded them, before the three of them barreled out of the house, Jillian nearly tripping over a Human corpse as she did so.

Outside was an even worse hell than Jillian initially thought so. She felt the Mass Accelerated slugs whiz past her head every odd moment, and always - _always - _felt the sudden urge to duck her head, to leap for cover, to find something to protect herself. She held the Asari's hand with a death grip - which the Asari returned - as they ran through the battlefield. Amazingly, the Humans had already managed to dig trenches, in the mere hour they'd been fighting for this position, these trenches were what the two Humans and Asari were running through as they made their way to the tanks at the rear of the offensive line.

Several panicked moments passed before they made it to 'safety', though they had to stay vigilant for artillery, destroyed enemy fighters, and the odd grenade. The OD3's hand reached up to his head, and he began a quick, heated conversation with his commanding officers.

_"__Goddess! Jillian!"_ She heard Saira scream, over the sounds of battle, _"why would the masters send us here?" __  
><em>

Jillian felt the urge to yell at the ignorant Asari, but resisted it as she saw the Dealer make several angry gestures. She couldn't hear him over the sounds of war, and he no-doubt had muted his armor's external speakers, but he looked _angry._ A minute of him arguing passed before he shook his head, made an angry bellow, and slammed his gloved fist into the tank behind him, which fired just a moment later, deafening the two without armor.

Through the ringing in Jillian's ears, she was able to understand the gist of what the Dealer had to say: The Batarians had set up laser-AA Cannons, and civilian evacuation vessels would be put into too much risk in this zone, if they tried to make a landing.

_"__What does that mean for us?!"_ Demanded Jillian, as the tank in front of them inched forward.

_"__You RUN!"_ He removed a smart-watch from one of the pockets on the skin-suit he wore underneath the power armor. He slipped it onto Jillian's right arm - as the left was still adorned with the Master's omni-tool - and it activated and showed them a map. _"__Our FOB is two klicks south of here! That's all Human territory, but we're still cleaning it up! We can't spare any manpower to protect either of you, you'll have to make do!"_ The man ordered. He looked to his right, saw a fallen comrade, and stripped him of his sidearm and the magazines. _"__Do you know how to fire this?"_ He demanded, Jillian nodded, deciding not to mention the gun in her left pocket, and was given several magazines and the Standard Infantry Pistol. _"__Take no chances! If it isn't Human, execute it! Now MOVE!" _He ordered, over the sudden whine of mortar fire.

Jillian and Saira - the former armed with the SIP, and clutching the latter's right hand with her left - fled the battlefield, as the Batarian defensive line exploded in a cascade of mortar shells. The last thing Jillian heard before the sounds of war became distance thanks to her fleet-feet, was the bellows and roars that indicated the _very_ imminent use of human-wave tactics.

Jillian and Saira practically flew through the decimated suburban/cityscape. It looked like it had been torn right from a scene of the quintessential 22nd century apocalypse movie, the buildings that hadn't been torn apart were standing with massive holes ripped out of them. The streets that weren't littered with bodies, were littered with pock-marks, spent Human bullet casings, and destroyed vehicles. The signs of war were everywhere, even in the reddened sky. Jillian heard a loud roar overhead, and managed to look up just in time to see over a dozen Alliance jets soar by, the sonic-boom that accompanied them just before they exploded forward to join the distant, advancing fight.

The Human and the Asari only stopped after five straight minutes of fleeing. The two were coughing and wheezing at this point, but that did _not_ stop the Asari from making amazed comments.

_"__Goddess, Jillian!"_ She wheezed, over the still-present ringing in her ears. _"__Are..."_ She swallowed hard, "are you certain you are going the right way?" Her eyes squinted, "did the Master even send us here?" The ancient slave questioned.

Jillian looked at her confusedly for a moment. She sweapt a shaky hand through her shoulder-length auburn hair, before it clicked for her that she had neglected to tell the Asari about the _other_ species in the Alliance.

"I..." Jillian breathed, "He said..."

"Jillian why is the Human military here?" Saira inquired, "I thought rescue was impossible..." Jillian couldn't help but blink when Saira connected the dots as fast as she did.

"I told you they would come, Saira." Jillian said, still breathing heavily.

"But... I..." She looked back to where they had just run from, "how can they be fighting the Masters? Do they not know it is better to let sleeping varren lay?"

"That..." Jillian exhaled deeply, she could _not_ get in to Human ethics and reasoning with this woman, not right now.

"I think we should turn ourselves -"

"Look, Saira, I know you have a _lot_ of questions, and, god bless you, I'll answer as many as I can… _Later."_ Jillian cut the Asari off, and raised her right hand. One button press and the Smart Watch's holographic interface was called up, Jillian reveled in the feeling of Alliance tech back on her hand. The map told her that they had another kilometer and a half before they would reach the Alliance's Forward Operating Base. She thought it was too much time to travel by foot, walking _or_ running.

"Saira, can you still pilot a sky car?"

"I... No." The Asari answered, sheepishly.

Jillian gave Saira an exasperated look before she remembered that the ancient woman in front of her had been a slave for centuries, teaching her ways to escape was probably very low on the masters' priority list. "Then we need get moving... We do not want to stay in these ruins for long." Jillian stated, as she straightened then stretched her back, and before long the two were making the trek through the dusty, devastated ruins of what had been a Batarian sub-city district, heading south, as the OD3 had directed them.

* * *

><p>He hadn't said a word. Bill Sampson hadn't said a single word to his daughter, he'd seen her there, he'd been the one to guide her and her Asari friend outside. He'd pleaded with the FOB to send a bird over to pick them up, but they couldn't risk the machine, or the pilots. Even a UAV wouldn't be able to come pick them up in this heat, so with a heavy heart, the Alliance Orbital Dropping Death Dealer had ordered his daughter to run, as far and as fast as she could. The only things he could take comfort in, were that she was armed, she had a biotic with her, and that the area she was fleeing to, was, for all intents and purposes, Human territory.<p>

Sampson shook his head, he had a battle to win and enemies to kill. He was reinvigorated at the knowledge that his daughter _was,_ in fact, alive, and she was still kicking. The second the mortars fell onto the Batarian defense line - slaughtering the slave-soldiers and the enemies alike, but that was unavoidable - the entirety of the Human/Quarian forces acted. The Humans were the first to do so, this sort of blind-rush was more the style of a Human than it was a Quarian. With deep roars and deep bellows, the Humans had hefted themselves and their weapons over the trenches, with numbers, thousands strong, they stormed forward, joined a split second later by similarly acting Quarian soldiers.

The Batarians couldn't have seen it coming. First the mortars, than mass-wave tactics. In seconds they were overwhelmed, and the rifle-battle was turned into an enormous brawl. Humans had their hands on whatever they could use in lieu of their first, mainly rifle butts, or pistol/knife combinations. The brawl quickly became raw chaos, and Sampson found himself going up against his own opponent. His shotgun barked loudly, shredding the shields of the Batarian soldier, and after a second to pump the shotgun, and then fix a bayonet onto the weapon, he was back in the fight. He viciously stabbed the blade through the chest-piece of the nearest enemy Batarian, and - with his mechanically enhanced strength and momentum - carried them both forward. The dying Batarian served as a meat shield for the Death Dealer, who slammed into another Batarian, and another, and then a third, before his shotgun barked again, and the pellets killed two and buried the third underneath the bodies.

The shotgun was pumped, and Sampson quickly found himself surrounded by Batarians, their rifles raised. One made a confident, smug gesture, but was suddenly crushed by a violent torrent of Humans and Quarians, as they surged forth and fired from the hip, tearing into the enemies and robbing them simultaneously of their territory and their kill. Sampson didn't waste a second getting back into the fight, his shotgun barked again, killing another Batarian, and again, killing another. Soon enough, the enraged, slightly gratified adrenaline rush of finding his daughter wore off, being replaced by the cold, calculating personality of the OD3 he'd trained to become.

The battle was as bloody as it was brutal, but in another ten minutes, the soldier Batarians were either dead, dying, or fleeing, and the slave-soldiers were incapacitated and placed into protective custody.

_"__We've got AA Cannons we need to take out!"_ Sampson roared into the communicator, as tanks quickly crossed the distance between them all. _"__Let's go! We've got a war to win!" _

_"__Hell yeah!"_ He heard his Human counterparts in the Orbital Dropping Death Dealers shout.

_"__Oorah!"_ He heard the marines roar.

_"__Hooah!"_ He heard soldiers bellow.


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

* * *

><p>"<em>Children, you call them? They can pull a trigger just as well as veterans, and they have the spirit of a bull narthax. Call them children if you wish. I call them troops. Good troops." <em>

— _**Colonel Marus Cullen, Warhammer 40,000**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>April 3<strong>__**rd**__**, 2216**_

* * *

><p>John-S2-15 was numb. They had sprung this on them just a few days ago, and just today, six hundred and twelve fourteen year old men had fled Sparta, and were making their way to Earth in an Alliance Craft Carrier. The fact that they had left Sparta wasn't what made John numb, it wasn't either, the fact that he was in a Carrier, the biggest ships to exist in the Alliance navy <em>ever,<em> aside from Flagships that is. No, it was the fact that he was going to Earth, and what he was going to do there, that made him numb.

Ever since he had arrived on Sparta, at age seven, and ever since he'd been trained to be a Supersoldier, one single thing had been consistently driven into his mind: Earth, or nothing. If the SIGMA Program couldn't defend Earth, they weren't fit to wear their uniforms, to wield their weapons. Earth was Humanity's home, his mother, it was as much hallowed ground as it was the single most important planet in the galaxy, in the _Universe!_ It was Earth, or nothing. Earth took priority, the only thing that was more important than Earth, were Earth's children, the Humans.

The SIGMA II's, they had always been told, would be augmented twice. One time, when they were fourteen, and had begun their Marine training. The purpose of this was twofold, one: it was to turn them into 'baseline supersoldiers', so they could be deployed if they were needed, before their primary augmentations, and two: it was meant to prepare their bodies for the far more physically taxing ordeal of the bio-mechanical augmentation process. From what John remembered instinctually, his body would - among other things - have an incredibly enhanced muscular structure, making them more dense and strong, and with several drug cocktails his skeletal structure would be made three times as strong as an average Human's, as well as giving them hyper-advanced reflexes. His reaction time would be seriously decreased, his minds would work many times faster than average Humans, and his immune systems - among many other things - would be seriously strengthened, in preparation for his augmentations at Age Eighteen, which would turn him into the God of the battlefield he'd always been told he and his brothers would have to work to become. John found it interesting to note that, all of the information packed into the organic-computer he called a brain would send others' minds spinning because of the raw detail, but for him it was every day knowledge, like his muscles his brain had been stretched and worked to the breaking point day in and day out, only to become stronger for the experience and more capable of obtaining and storing knowledge.

The last of the II's had turned fourteen the week previous, and as a result, it was time to get augmented. The problem, however was that they would be taken out of commission for an indeterminate amount of time, given that they survived in the first place. The survivability rate for the First Round Augmentations was over 96%, but there was still a margin for error. So the SIGMA Ones, in a _rare_ moment of Humanity, had decided that the II's had earned a break. A _true_ break. They had three days on Earth, chaperoned of course, but still three days, anywhere they wanted on the Homeworld, to do damn near whatever they wanted, within reason.

John had thought of going to New York, to view Earth's Capital City, or perhaps to the England Space Port, Earth's largest Space Port. He had even considered going to Washington DC, or one of the other myriad of capitols of Earth's highly divided, and still existent nations. But all of his plans had been dashed, the second an address he'd almost forgotten about had been tapped.

He opened his smart-watch again, they were a few hours out from exiting Warp, so he couldn't send her an update message, but he could still access his own archived ones. Miranda had contacted him, on the email address he'd given her just a year ago.

The message was simple.

_John,_

_Do you remember, the night we spoke to each other about my Father? _

_He's gone too far. I've discovered things about him, about what he's done, what he's doing, and what he's going to do, I need to escape. _

_I've got a plan in place… But I don't have anyone in this house that I can trust implicitly, so I've come to you. _

_I need help, John, can you provide?_

_- Miranda-S2-106._

That the young woman had called herself by her SIGMA moniker, and not by her proper name, had not been lost on the child-soldier. John's response had been quick, and to the point.

_I will help as soon as I am able. _

_It is uncannily fortunate of you to have contacted me when you did, we are going to be at Earth within the next few days, to undergo our First Augmentation Procedure. Beforehand I shall have three days exactly to mull around on Earth, and experience and see just what I will be fighting for, for the rest of my life. _

_What do you need help with? Is this an urban-op? Are we going to be out in the country? What will the ROE be? What about our objective? You mentioned a plan, let's hear it. _

Miranda's response had come a few hours later, in the middle of John's training run. He'd had to wait until bed to see this, but he hadn't minded.

_John, _

_Simply put, it's an extraction mission. But not just me, if that had been the case, I could have left ages ago. _

_I can't explain everything over such a vulnerable method of communication, but a new element has entered my life that I must act upon. It's familial, and that is all I can say. _

_There will be two packages that must be delivered, me and the New Element. _

_I want to act under the cover of darkness. I've already got a cover story for you, I've been speaking with my father, playing the role of a teenage girl. I've dropped dozens of hints and outright statements about a boy I've met, you'll be named John Shatner. I've been rather obedient the last year - my Father thinks it's the 'military school' working its magic - and he decided to humor me, by allowing me to invite you over. His loss. _

_You tell me when you can get here, I can set up the date. You'll have to arrive early, around noon, we'll essentially be acting like normal teens for the day, my Father might be a little suspicious, given our age, but after a few hours of movies, music, and games, he'll back off. I've already worked up a story as to why you should stay the night, just make sure you inform him at one point that you're an orphan, and you'd like to allow the Home a day or two's break from having a teen in its care. _

_I'll send you a data packet with all the information you'll need, but for the most part your story is up to you. _

_As to the actual mission, that will be something we discuss over dinner. I've managed to set up a reason for my father to be away from the table for about an hour, we'll be free enough to speak openly, albeit discreetly. _

_The Rules of Engagement are mostly up to you, you're the one who's been doing this for his entire life, after all. Just try not to kill anyone that isn't armed. _

_Is there anything else you need to know?_

John had been impressed, this was what Miranda was willing to say over the internet, so there was more than likely something even more complex cooking up within her mind. She definitely was a smart one, he knew.

_I shall worry about how to get away from my handler for the day. I will be one of two going to Australia, so it should only take me a half hour to break free and cover my tracks. Just know, we will be operating on _two _timetables, yours and the Alliance's. The second I get out of my handler's sight, the entirety of Alliance Intelligence will be looking for me. I'll be a rogue Supersoldier. Plan for some sort of SIGMA Intervention in our little mission, They __**will **__send the best if they find me. This is the same government that sanctioned kidnapping kids and training them to become super soldiers, if need be they will execute me to save face._

_As to the Plan and the ROE, I trust you've got the problems and inconsistencies covered. _

_I'll write you again when I'm in orbit. We'll be spending two Alliance Standard hours in Titan Station, in orbit around Earth, before our three-day shore leave. _

_- John._

And after he'd sent her a quick message, before entering the Warp, telling her that they were off, that had brought him to the present. He was in the Alliance Carrier, the _Theodore Roosevelt,_ waiting for them to exit Warp, so he could beam a quick message to Miranda. He quickly shut his Smart Watch as Justin and George sat down next to him, trays of food in hand.

"Not hungry?" Asked George, his voice deep and thickly accented.

John shook his head, blankly staring at his food tray as he did. It was filled with the usual unappetizing slop, only good enough to keep you healthy and keep you going, nothing more, nothing less, its only saving grace was that it was actual food, and not the nutrient-paste the II's were given as punishment.

"I know the feeling." Said Justin, powering through the meal, as if on auto-pilot. "I mean… _Earth!" _He said, his voice full of awe. "It's… _Earth!" _

"Weren't you born there?" John asked absently, with a hint of curiosity in his voice.

Justin stared at John a moment, he blinked, "oh hell, I was." His voice showed no signs that he'd been lying, he had truly forgotten the planet he'd been born on.

George picked up the conversation after a few moments, "do you think they'll end up pulling the rug out from under us?" He asked, "reveal it all to be some kind of elaborate trick?"

"They damn well better _not!"_ Justin said fervently. "I want to see the homeworld, before I get augged!"

John nodded. Few of the SIGMA Teens could believe it, they had heard legends of Earth, of the thousands upon thousands of years of history and warfare that had shaped the Human race into what it was today. Of the heroes, of the villains, of the stories and legends, of the simple fact that it was _Earth._ To the SIGMA II's, it was as much of a religious icon as God would be to a Christian. The only thing more important to a SIGMA II was Humanity itself, but if you asked one, Earth and Humanity could be considered one in the same.

"You've been kind of silent as to where you're going, John." George mentioned, as he too powered through his food like a machine.

"I'm thinking of hitting Australia." Said John.

"Australia?" Justin blinked, "what's there?"

John shrugged, "you always hear news about the United States, about Russia, or about China, or England. Even in the space-age, Australia tends to just do its own thing. I'd like to see what its like down under." He explained.

"Isn't Jin going to Australia?" Justin asked.

"Yup."

"So it won't be like you're alone." George gave John a light shove.

"What about you two?"

"I'm hitting England, of course." Said George, "it'll be interesting seeing the space-port in action."

"I'm going to Moscow." Justin said simply.

"What's in Moscow?" George inquired.

Justin chuckled, "well, from what I understand, outside of Eden and Titan, Russia's the Alliance's biggest supplier of the Alliance Navy's weaponry, they work almost hand-in-hand with the England Space Port... So I want to go see the factories at work." He responded.

The three continued idle conversation for the rest of the trip. As the ship rapidly decelerated, after exiting Warp Space, John finally thought of a new question. It was relevant to him, though these two wouldn't know, not until John 'deserted', at least.

"How many do you think will run?" He asked, _silencing_ the conversation Justin and George had been having.

"What?" Said George, flabbergasted and outright dumbfounded at the prospect of a SIGMA II running away.

"How many do you think will try to flee?" John asked, "we've never gotten a chance like this… Some of us might run. Do you think any will?"

"No." Said George, flatly.

"Maybe one or two, but they'll come back after they realize that their cause is better than simple existing from day-to-day, like normal people." Said Justin.

A pause from John, "what do you think They'll do? If someone runs?"

"Keep it quiet, but hunt them worse than they've been hunting The Ghost." Justin stated, "you're scaring me, John. The hell are you thinking of doing?" He asked, seriously.

John stared hard at the table in front of him. Any number of things could go wrong with his mission with Miranda, but she'd specifically requested he act alone. He could be caught by the SIGMAs, he could be caught by Henry Lawson, he could be _killed._ Anything could go wrong, but he knew that they would hunt him the second he started his plan.

"Nothing." It ate at his very soul to lie to his two closest friends in the galaxy, "just… Something that's been nagging at me for a day or two, now." He paused, "forbidden fruits, and all that." A chuckle.

"Right…" George said, looking at John suspiciously for a moment, before he shrugged. "I think we've exited Warp, now."

* * *

><p>The shuttle-trip down to Earth had simply been awe-inspiring, for Jin-S2-162, for John-S2-15, and even for their SIGMA I chaperon, Dave Stallone S1-141. Looking at Earth from orbit alone had instilled such a sense of pride, and of power, in the SIGMA Teens that nothing else could compare to it. They'd seen at two Orbital Defense Platforms as they descended down to Earth. The massive magnetic accelerator cannons simply <em>screamed<em> of the raw power possessed by the Human Race, and the drones that surrounded it, maintained it, and defended it, had made it seem only the more pristine and impressive.

The view upon atmospheric entry, however, was breathtaking. The Sydney Space Port was filled with private ships and military shuttles, coming home and taking shore leave respectively. The air was filled with helicopters, news-drones, and shuttles taking off and setting down as well, and the wet-ships coming into port in the distance gave John the most indescribable sense of past and present naval technology colliding. Then John had seen the city, and it had almost made him well up with tears at the sheer beauty of it. The skyscrapers, the planes, the cars, and the ant-like people, all working together to make a single, visual statement: Humans are beautiful. The architecture was amazing, the obelisk-like buildings worked beautifully with the smaller abodes that surrounded them.

John stepped outside, and after he adjusted his patrol cap, he, for the first time in his life, smelled Earth's air. There was an odd, partly synthetic quality to it, but John knew that it had been from the multiple global uses of Humanity's terraforming disks, which had forcibly cleansed the Earth's biosphere. But the air still smelled _clean,_ for the entire six seconds before John smelled the saltiness of the sea air behind them. For a few minutes, as John followed Stallone, he felt the oddest sense of sensory overload, as it hit him like a ton of bricks: He was on Earth.

The _home,_ of the Human race.

He was here, _right here!_ Humans had evolved here, had come to power here, and had been born here, and it was for _this_ they were fighting, every day! It was for _this,_ that the Alliance Armed Forces were besieging Batarian slave worlds, even as John experienced the euphoric glory of the homeworld. The trio passed by a few dozen Humans, and several Quarians, before they exited the spaceport.

"Alright," said Stallone, "before we do _anything_, I've got to take you two to the Opera House." He stated, "that's non negotiable." He laughed, breaking the cold-soldier façade that Ducard had been working for years to create, unwittingly putting a sense of unease into the two child soldiers in his presence. John would say nothing about it, but it felt awkward, seeing what had once been an immovable object turn into what looked like a genuine Human being, where in orbit Stallone had been the spitting-image of a hardened spec-ops Supersoldier, now he looked like a regular man coming in with his kids for vacation; in a word, it was unnerving.

John and Jin nodded, Jin looked genuinely interested in visiting the ancient buildings, and while John put on a convincing face, he was honestly disinterested. Had he been at the England Space Port with George, or in New York with some of the other II's, he would have been secretly giddy at the prospect of visiting the ancient Human landmarks, but here, it was all a means to an end. So for two hours, they walked around, visiting landmarks and getting history lessons from Stallone, who knew so much that John had assumed that he either was a native-born Australian, or simply loved visiting here.

After two hours passed by, his Smart Watch made a nearly inaudible 'ping' noise, and the dust-machines stimulated the skin around it, to let John know that it was ten AM, local time. Miranda wanted him there around eleven thirty, and seeing as how John would need a cab to get there, he would have to leave _now_ if he wanted to pickpocket enough money to get cab-fare.

"I'll be right back, sir." John mentioned, lightly tapping Stallone on the arm. "Bathroom." He explained.

"Alright, be back here in five." Stallone responded, with a nod.

John made for the bathroom, but after he left the eyesight of the SIGMA Operative, and his earshot, he quickly made for the nearest exit. Calling upon stealth training, John looked for a single moment, for a wealthy-looking man or woman from which he could 'appropriate' funds to make the trip to Miranda's. In seconds, he found his target, a seventy five year old middle-aged man, with a rotund form and a loosely fitting jacket. John inhaled deeply, and then exhaled, before he flowed within the crowds, and the people. He was five feet tall, but he was still short enough to blend in perfectly. He reached the man, and knew a distraction would be needed for a perfect extraction.

John looked around, and saw a woman in a dress, and high-heels. The dress was violet red, and looked like it would be easy to trip in. Easy excuse, John thought, before he violently - but silently - stomped on the back of the dress. The second he knew the woman would lose her footing, he let go and faded back into obscurity. The woman fell with a loud yelp, and suddenly everyone's attention was upon her, and her unfortunately upturned skirt. The Rotund Man specifically had taken a liking to the view, which distracted him from the fourteen year old's hand in his jacket-pocket. John quickly removed his hand, wallet gripped loosely in it, and then placed the thickly packed wallet in his back pocket, and nearly froze at what he saw next.

A small girl, a small Asian girl, had witnessed the entire thing. John took one look at the Rotund Man, who hadn't noticed him, then he looked at the Asian girl. She stared at him, wide-eyed as if she'd been enraptured at what she'd just seen the child-soldier do. Not breaking stride, John put one finger to his lips and made a 'shh!' sound, before he melted into the crowd behind him. The Asian girl never made a peep about him, or what she'd seen, and in minutes, John made it outside.

The fresh, salty air smelled beautifully to John's nose, but he didn't waste a second admiring it. He had about three to five minutes before red flags would be raised _everywhere,_ so he had to make that small window of opportunity count. As John walked, slowly but surely, two things began sinking into his mind. The first being that he was _actually_ doing this, he was _deserting_ the Alliance Military, the only life and the only family he'd ever known, he shuddered to think what would happen when they found him. The second thing that began sinking into his mind was the noise of the city. His surroundings were so loud it almost made his head spin, he was used to military bases on Sparta, which were quiet save for the noise of the local wildlife and the sounds of SIGMAs - I and II - training. There were so many people around him that John was slightly overwhelmed, for the first few moments it was hard to discern who was a threat and who wasn't, through the noise of the city, but after a while he applied himself and was able to block out a lot of the noise, to focus on the important things: Threats, his Goal, and any possible pursuers. John walked a good eight blocks from the Opera House, and when he judged he was a suitable distance away, he called for a cab. Twenty two seconds passed before one stopped for him, and he climbed in the back.

"Where're you heading to, kid?" Asked the driver, in an accent that was far more apparent than Miranda's, but a lot less thick than George's. John recited Miranda's address from memory, which made the man laugh. "You got the money for a trip like that? That's an hour's drive." He stated.

In response, John pulled out the wallet, and greeted the man with two hundred dollar Alliance bills. "Speed and discretion, my friend." Said John, before he adjusted the cap on his head, and nodded to the driver, who'd taken the money.

"Speed and discretion…" The driver muttered, disbelievingly, "right…" He shook his head, whistled, and then hit the accelerator. John knew, as much as he would want to, he couldn't take a nap, the second the Alliance figured out he was gone, the airspace would be filled with drones looking for him. John surreptitiously checked his pistol and the belt, the pistol was still there, tucked underneath his loosely-fitting dark red shirt, and the belt was tightened against his waist, the four magazines all safely secured in their pouches, and all fully loaded.

John patted his gray combat-pants, leaned his head back, settled his eyes on the rearview mirror, and settled in for the ride.

* * *

><p>Six minutes had passed, before time John's Smart Watch pinged, and it wasn't from Miranda. He'd ordered the cab to stop, so he could place the watch under its front wheel. The watch was destroyed when the cab went forward again, as was anything else John had on him that could be tracked by Alliance Intelligence. He'd been <em>raised<em> on how to track enemies through every means possible, he would in no way make this easy on his trackers. After that, the cab-ride had been more or less smooth.

The child soldier would be the first to deny his fear, however, when he heard the sonic boom of Alliance Air and Space Force Jets scream overhead. It had taken them a _lot_ less time to scramble the military, it seemed. Throughout the drive John noticed a myriad of Alliance tech, dutifully searching the country for their missing SIGMA. It surprised John that the Alliance was being so brazen as to deploy Alliance _and_ Australian fighter jets and reconnaissance drones, yet on the ground they were settling for military checkpoints. He had, after seeing what he recognized as a troop-transport shuttle descend through the atmosphere, honestly expected to see tanks and armored infantry vehicles barreling through the streets.

The cab driver, on the other hand, was a lot less subtle about his fears. On more than one occasion he outright demanded that the kid tell him if he had anything to do with 'why the Alliance was shitting themselves', but John had prepared for that and each time he told the driver that he should watch the news more often, that rebel scouting ships had been seen on the outermost edges of the Sol System, and that the Alliance was just conducting exercises. The driver had been curious as to how 'a twelve year old' could know that, and John told the man he was fifteen and in the Alliance Army ROTC, ending the Driver's arguments.

When the ride was over, John had narrowly guided the driver through three military checkpoints, and had given him an almost literal crash course on avoiding tracker drones, eventually having to give the man another hundred dollars to ensure his silence when all was said and done. But now he was at Miranda's home, and when the cab left, and he got his first look at it, his jaw almost dropped.

The house - if that was even an appropriate term for such an abode - was _enormous._ The front lawn alone was as big as six of Delta Company's barracks, the mansion was effectively in the middle of nowhere, but Lawson obviously had personal transports, ready to get him wherever he needed to be in minutes. John stuffed his dog-tags in his shirt, adjusted his patrol cap, and walked up to the locked gate at the entrance of the home. Immediately, an armed man made himself present by halting the SIGMA Teen. John's mind, upon seeing the gun, immediately went into combat mode.

John knew that, with a single kick to the gut, the Guard would double over in pain, giving John time enough to grab the man's pistol and clobber him on the back of the head with it. Should the guard be more trained than his tired, slightly vacant eyes suggested, he would most likely be able to resist the first kick, in which case John could grab his arm, twist it, have the man bend himself over. John could then quickly dislocate the arm, break it in to places, and retrieve the man's pistol, before a quick kick to the back of the legs brought him to his knees, and a kick to the base of the spine killed him outright. John thanked himself for deciding to wear his steel-toed boots, instead of his regular ones.

"Can I help you?" Asked the guard, completely failing to see the combat-ready look in John's deep blue eyes.

"My name is Jon S -" He caught himself, "Shatner."

The Guard's face lit up significantly, "you're that boy that little Miranda's been talking about the last few weeks, aren't you?" He gave John a once over, and whistled. "Damn, son, what's your secret?" He asked, indicating John's well-toned and developed frame.

"I want to join the military." John stated, not technically lying.

"Well, doesn't everyone at your age? Doesn't mean you've got to turn yourself into a bloody Spartan to do it." He chuckled, and activated his Smart Watch. John quickly adjusted his cap and looked to his right, pretending to admire the flowers that adorned the large, oddly prison-like wall that surrounded the mansion. In reality, the Smart Watches cameras were all linked to the Alliance Satellite network, and one _single_ red flag was all it would take for a battalion of Orbital Dropping Death Dealers to drop in on him. "Yeah, this is Chuck from the entrance gate." John noted the man's name, "I've got that Shatner kid, here to see Miranda."

A new voice, that definitely was _not_ the voice of a mercenary, a private guard, or anything of the sort, responded. _"__Send him in."_

Chuck opened the gate, but placed his hand on John's chest, stopping him from entering. John, whose mind _instantly_ went to the eight different ways he could effectively remove the man's ability to use the hand for several weeks, repressed every instinct in his body, so he would look up into the guard's eyes.

"Word of advice, Shatner." Said Chuck, "make a good first impression." He nodded, and then bade John inside.

Inside the wall, John saw a beautiful landscape. A well-trimmed lawn, with over a dozen shaped hedges was within. Two fountains - one with a replica of Michelangelo's David in it, and the other with a replica of The Thinker - were on either side of the stone-brick path, which winded straight to the front door, but couldn't pass up the opportunity to curve around some of the more pretty hedges and flower-bushes. Of course, John, while he did see the beauty in such displays, all he truly saw here were things that could be set ablaze to make a distraction, cover from incoming fire, and possible things to hide behind, should he have to sneak around.

John took his time, despite every single seven-year ingrained instinct in his body telling him to go straight for the door. John even paused for a moment to admire David. He would have called it a mistake, seeing as how Henry Lawson appeared behind him not a moment after he stopped to look at the figure, but in the back of his mind, he knew it only helped his story.

"Have a mind for the arts, I see." Said the deep-voiced, official sounding man.

John looked at Henry. The man was tall, at least five feet, eight inches, perhaps even six feet tall. He had electric blue eyes, and dark black hair which was obviously dyed down to make it such an all-absorbing shade of black. He had a face which screamed of self-confidence, and told John that the man knew he had power over many things. The man's suit also reeked of copious money, and the man's deep voice conveyed a sense of authority; but John had lived with _Ducard_ for seven years, and Ducard was known amongst the II's as being the harshest of them all, so anything this Human could do would _pale_ in comparison to what Ducard could do. Or, to be more specific, what he _would_ do, after he caught John and got his momentum going.

"Yes sir." Said John, clippedly. His voice was no where near as deep as the businessman's next to him, but it was going through its change, and the baritone was making itself present, and John's combat experience - both in the training field and on the battlefield - had given it a rugged, almost throaty quality.

"I prefer Da'Vinci's work, myself." Henry mentioned, "have you ever been to the Sistine Chapel?"

"I live in a shelter, sir. The best I've been able to see is the Opera House." Said John, knowing full and well that said Opera House had probably been locked down by SIGMA Forces, N7 Special Operatives, and probably whatever the Australian Military could provide, which was essentially everything, given that there weren't any major conflicts going on, on the Earth, at this point in time, aside from the few Counter Terrorism operations that the Russians and the Americans were dealing with; an interesting fact, John knew, because Earth's history had been rife with conflict and warfare ever since the beginnings of organized society, case in point, he remembered learning that during the twentieth century there was a collective twenty minutes in which there was no conflict going on against any two nations. Earth's 'peaceful' era had only truly began after World War 3 had ended and Humanity had nearly tied the noose around its neck.

"Right, I forgot." Henry's disinterested tone suggested he already knew. "Well, I've been there. The centuries-old paintings are still as amazing as the day they were created. _Nothing_ can compare to them."

"I'm more a fan of Depla'Zhan." Said John, naming the first famous modern-artist his Internet searches had provided him with.

"The Quarian artist?" Henry sounded surprised, as he placed his hands behind his back. "What is your favorite piece, of hers?"

John grinned, "the Second Contact War. The painting of a SIGMA helping a Migrant Fleet Marine to his feet."

"I've seen that piece… Did you notice how the reds on the faces of the Human Marines suggested the rage and anger of the invasion of the Earth?" John was silently praying Miranda would show up soon, he could talk endlessly about weapons and war, but he only had two good points to make about Art and music.

"I was more a fan of the blue of the sky behind the Human Defensive Line." John said, surreptitiously scanning behind Henry for any sign of Miranda, he found none. "It suggested that Peace followed the Alliance forces, while the reds on the other side of the supersoldier suggested the chaos that would follow Turian occupation."

"That _is_ interesting…" Said Henry, "so how did you meet my Daughter?" He asked bluntly, "I'm amazed a Shelter could provide enough for one of its occupants to go to such a prestigious private academy."

Miranda had been prepared for this, John recited what he'd been given, "I passed a… Well, you could call it a scholarship test." John supplied, "my foster parents begged me to take it, because they didn't want my mind to be wasted at a public school. To make a long, surprising story short, I passed." He paused, "I met Miranda at lunch one day. She was sitting alone, no one was speaking to her, so I thought I would introduce myself."

Henry looked at John for a few moments, "who raised you?" He finally asked, "you have an American accent."

John could have cursed, he hadn't thought about that, though thankfully, the answer was as simple as the question. "A few American Immigrants raised me." He said, "I picked up the accent when I was six... Never dropped it." A beat passed, "where were you raised, sir? You don't have an accent either."

"I was raised in the United States." Henry revealed, before deftly changing the subject away from him. "That is an interesting choice of attire…" Henry mentioned, completely changing the subject. "Do you plan to join the Alliance? That looks like the casual dress uniform of a Marine…"

John very suddenly remembered the _extensive_ satellite presence above Earth, and almost cursed out loud. He wanted to go inside, and he wanted to inside _now_ before one satellite got lucky and caught a glimpse of him.

"My real father was a captain in the navy, during the Second Contact War. My mother died of mercnary attack. I kind of wanted to find a higher calling than a desk job at the nearest Bank of the Alliance." John made up.

And, to John's _great_ pleasure, that was when Miranda made her entrance. "Johnny!" She called, before her arms were suddenly wrapped around John's right. It took every bit of John's training to repress the shiver that had threatened to make itself known, at the utterance of his name. Aside from their serial and class numbers, a SIGMA's first name was _sacred,_ even moreso with the SIGMA II's. Whether Miranda knew it or not, she'd just mutilated one of the very few things John could call his own. "I see you've met my father!" She smiled, giving John a quick, reassuring squeeze on his forearm before her gaze drifted to her father. "I _told_ you he was a nice boy, father!" She said, her accent thick and her tone high.

"He seems like one…" Said Henry, "shall we head inside? Alfonse will be mowing the lawn, soon."

* * *

><p>Inside, John was put into a state of awe, trumping the state he'd been put into when he saw the lawn. The house was as enormous on the inside, as it was on the outside, perhaps even more so. This house alone redefined what John understood as 'interior design', John knew it as metallic, blank walls, marble floors, and rows upon rows of bunk-beds, lining the walls. Inside Miranda's home, the ceiling was high enough that John couldn't have seen it clearly, had his eyes not been trained to notice the subtlest of details at the most lengthiest of distances. There were paintings everywhere, and the dark blue paint on the walls seemed to give the home a cool, inviting, comfortable feeling. In the foyer, there was an enormous, crystal chandelier, and though John knew it was for light and for show, all he saw was something he could drop to distract <em>everyone<em> from his movements. A few yards in front of them lay a large, grand staircase with a dark green rug covering the furry carpet. The ground, John noticed, was not at all dissimilar to the marble used at the base, so John knew that a single, hard, fast impact with it would knock any normal Human out _cold._

"So before you two run off to do… Whatever it is teenagers do these days…" John was far too trained to keep a straight, silent façade, to allow a snort to come through. This man knew perfectly well what Humans did, there were at least three security cameras in the foyer _alone,_ and given Miranda's previously rebellious tendencies, John could only guess how many were in her areas of activity. "I must ask, John -" John suppressed a shudder, he could accept Miranda, Ducard, or any of the SIGMA I's and II's calling him by his first name, but he neither knew nor respected the man to his right front, so he did _not_ feel the man deserved the right to call him by his first name. "- what is your favorite subject at school?"

John's response was an automatic, "Alliance Military History."

"Really?" Questioned Henry, "It makes sense, given a boy your age and of your…" He looked at John, "appearance." John couldn't fault the man there, for seven years he'd been taught how to look, eat, and present himself. Shoulders squared, back straight, neck straight, hands at sides or behind the back. "But… I would have pegged you as more of a…" He paused for a moment, John didn't give the man a single opportunity to doubt his story, his face was straight and his expression blank, if a little challenging. "Engineer. Are you certain you wouldn't rather go to college? I happen to know quite a few people I could influence, perhaps get you a scholarship."

John grinned a one-sided grin, though it didn't reach his eyes, "no thank you, sir. It's a military life, for me." He said honestly.

"Alright…" Henry nodded, "Miranda, you know the rules. I have to meet with McGraw -"

"Yes, father." John could just barely detect a hint of satisfaction in her voice, as she cut her father off, though he couldn't tell if it was because she'd interrupted her father, or because something was going to plan. "Come on, John!" She said, grabbing John's arm and dragging him up the stairs.

* * *

><p><em>"Ducard… What… Exactly… Did you just tell me?"<em> Slowly, and very methodically, said the Alliance Director for Augmented Affairs, the man who, among many other underrepresented duties, represented every SIGMA Operative serving under the Human Race.

Ducard-S1-99 repressed a sigh. This had been the first time the words he had just uttered, had _ever_ been uttered, so it stood to reason that the Director of the most powerful military branch in Human history, had to hear them again.

"Director Trent… We lost a SIGMA Two. We can't find him." The SIGMA stated, almost feeling the rage radiating across time and space. "He escaped his handler around eleven thirty in the morning, local time. Five minutes after he failed to report as ordered, we pinged his smart watch, which he promptly ditched as he headed north, further inland." The SIGMA Explained, "we have sub-orbital UAV's, local satellites, Alliance Satellites, Local and Alliance Intelligence, literally everything I could get my hands on in three hours is searching for this boy, N7 and local special forces included."

_"And you haven't _found_ him?!"_

"Sir, he's a SIGMA... Albeit in training, but a SIGMA nonetheless. He won't make it easy for us to get caught, you should understand this more than any politician alive." Ducard said, holding ground. "We have a general area in which he might be located and a possible location at which to find him, but thermal scans showed no conclusive evidence... Save for a discrepancy in the EM field."

This piqued the Director's interest, _"a discrepancy?"_

"Yes sir, a discrepancy." Ducard repeated, "we're still working on cracking through, but apparently Henry Lawson has something he doesn't want the Alliance to see, and paid top dollar to make sure of it. It has raised our suspicion levels and we've dedicated a SO-UAV to watch the premises, but we cannot legally invade the home without concrete evidence... Not unless we want to create more friction with the Earth Governments."

_"Fric- damn it."_ Trent's head sunk into his hand; ever since the Systems Alliance and her colonies had become a larger economic powerhouse than Planet Earth, they had essentially broken away from the former 'Leash Holder' nations that had been funding it, so no one Earth Nation could dictate what the Human Systems Alliance did, and so the Alliance could more freely act as guardians and representatives of Earth and her children, the Humans. This had, understandably, caused a great amount of tension between the UN and the SA, said tensions were still sore even now, so many decades later. Even the Alliance's victory in the Second Contact War hadn't done anything to ease the tensions, the UN hadn't focused on the fact that the Alliance had pushed the Turians off of Earth about as quickly as they had arrived, but instead they had focused on the act that the Turians had _made it_ to Earth, had the Alliance Armed Forces 'done their jobs', they wouldn't have made it in the first place. The list of debates and creators of friction went on and on, a book could be written about the political tensions between the Alliance and the United Nations.

There were several minutes of silence, as the Director thought of what he could legally do, and how he could properly stretch that legality so no trigger-happy nation could have grounds to declare war on the Alliance, a very real political possibility that had nearly been attempted after the conclusion of the Mercenary wars. Finally, the Director spoke again. _"I want you to find him, Ducard. I don't want the Alliance's darkest secret going public, kill him if you must but do not do anything that could spark a Civil War between us and the United Nations, being split three ways would spell death for the Alliance and everyone therein."_ He instructed, before he cut the comms-link.


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

* * *

><p><em><strong>Quark:<strong>__ Maybe, but I still don't want you anywhere near them. Let me tell you something about humans, nephew. They're a wonderful, friendly people as long as their bellies are full and their holosuites are working. But take away their creature comforts, deprive them of food, sleep, sonic showers, put their lives in jeopardy over an extended period of time, and those same friendly, intelligent, wonderful people will become as nasty and as violent as the most bloodthirsty Klingon. You don't believe me? Look at those faces. Look in their eyes. You know I'm right, don't you? Well? Aren't you going to say something? _

_**Nog**__: I feel sorry for the Jem'Hadar. _

— **Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

* * *

><p><em><strong>April 3<strong>__**rd**__** , 2216**_

* * *

><p><em>"Nuclear weapon confirmed! Nuclear weapon confirmed! God damn, this thing's fucking huge!"<em> Heard Sergeant Bill Sampson, _"it's counting down! Sixty two seconds!"_

_"All Alliance ground forces in the vicinity of Operations Zone Charlie, this is Admiral Griebun. Evacuate, Evacuate, Evacuate! Get the hell out of there, the Batarians rigged the nuke to blow!"_ A second, more authoritative voice commanded.

Sampson laboriously hauled himself to his feet, his left arm a bloody, shredded mess, and sprinted away, as far and as fast as his legs and the mechanical servo-motors that encased them would carry him. The ground beneath him was shaking violently under the force of Batarian Artillery and the Mech Duels between Alliance Drones and Batarian Walkers. It was a mass exodus, the Alliance Armed Forces had just spent hours taking this city, tossed thousands of bodies at it, and now _every_ Human and Quarian in the city was fleeing for his or her life. Never had Sampson seen something more dire, more downright _scary,_ than the vision his drone-feed was giving him in the bottom left corner of his HUD. Every single bipedal being was rapidly fleeing the city, every vehicle was being driven out, carrying far more than its original occupant capacity. Jets, gunships, shuttles, even hijacked and hotwired skycars, were all fleeing by air, and anyone not lucky enough to get a vehicle, was running for their life.

Sampson was one of those people, but his mind wasn't on the nuke, it wasn't on his useless arm, it wasn't even on the fact that he didn't know if his power armor could get him to the minimum safe distance in time, and it wasn't even on the nearly one-sided battle that had taken place before he'd even heard about the nuke. It was on the single, horrifying vision he'd seen, mere seconds before the Nuke had been declared. He'd seen, just for an instant, before they disappeared, troopers in white, black and gold armor he could not recognize, but all with distinctly Humanoid shapes, gunning down the team sent in to investigate the thermonuclear rumor. They'd gunned the engineers down, they'd gunned a _SIGMA _down, and then had attempted to gun him down, but his armor, his shields, and his reflexes had saved his life.

As Sampson sprinted, as fast as he possibly could, only one thing ran through his mind: _What just happened?_

* * *

><p><em>"Operation VANGUARD Oh-One is a go."<em> Said the deep voice of the ex-lieutenant Boris Halberd.

He and his squad of six men stood as one, they were a half kilometer outside of a heavily contested and heavily defended Batarian city on the planet Siler. The Cerberus Commando Squad's goal was simple: Begin VANGUARD, and set the foundations for the best-laid plans. All six of them wore some of the most advanced sets of power armor in the Alliance, designed almost entirely by The Intuitive Man himself. The armor was designed to increase their strength to nearly _SIGMA_ levels, and was made extremely durable via using OD3 PIAA armor plating, and crushing it under extreme Mass Effect treatment. Their 'smart skin' undersuits were exact replicas of the ones the SIGMAs wore, though these ones were designed with a contingency plan involved, if any one of them died, the suits would increase their temperatures to the point where their bodies would be liquefied, and their armor burned so badly that it wouldn't be recognizable. Their shields, while not as strong as Titan Armor shields, were still good enough to take a hit from a Krogan, running full-tilt, and putting everything he had in the swing. And then there was, of course, one feature that no Cerberus Commando's armor could go without, the black and gold finish.

The squad activated their tactical cloaks, and moved forward. In order to complete their objective, they had to martyr themselves, and several thousand Humans. They had to set up, initiate, and then detonate a city-breaker class nuclear weapon, a several megaton device which bore _all_ of the design similarities to Krogan dirty bombs, right down to the ancestral dust packed around the detonator, that the Batarian Hegemony had become infamous for buying and using back during the Batarian/Vorcha war. It was well known the Batarians had stockpiles of the KDB's, but the Council's best Spectres had never been able to get proof, so the Hegemony had never been convicted. This only worked for the black-ops organization's advantage, of course: The commandos would set up, and detonate the Nuke, and then sensitive Hegemony secrets would be 'leaked' by the ever-gaining-popularity extremists within the Hegemony, and the effects would be so many, that Boris was truly amazed that this was simply the _first step_ in Cerberus' 'master plan'.

Boris knew it, as well as his squad, and Cerberus' leader - who had never given his _real_ name to anyone under his leadership, in spite of rumors that the also illusive 'Intuitive Man' knowing otherwise, Boris noted with a slight sense of offense. They all knew that a single nuclear detonation would turn this from a glorified 'rescue operation', to a war that demanded a shift to an Alliance War Economy. Even the Citadel would have to respond to this with cold hard cash, and the extra funding on both ends would increase tensions, which would increase funds. The war-minded Humans would either make better arms, invent some new weapon or technology, or they would simply increase their already mighty military power. The Citadel would make more ships, would make a barely noticeable service time increase on their troops, and would make more mechs. Everyone in Council territory knew, that if they joined the service that eventually - whether it be eventually _now,_ or eventually _way_ down the line - they would fight Humans, and that was something no one, not T'Loak's Terminus Systems, not the Citadel Council, and _especially_ not the big Mercenary companies, wanted to do. A war with Humanity might have been a feasible option a decade ago, _definitely_ two decades ago, but now? With Humanity's territory resting at dozens of planets, with billions of people, and a navy so strong it would take an entire galaxy to destroy it? The Human Systems Alliance was a sleeping giant, and their relationship with foreign powers was a time bomb. Boris didn't know Cerberus' plans exactly, but if the nuclear weapon was any indication, Cerberus wanted to _detonate_ that time bomb, with, it seemed, a fuse lit by nuclear flames.

So that's what they would do. They'd gotten word that the Alliance had been sent to _storm_ the targeted city, with overwhelming force. N7 Special Forces had been sent in beforehand - it wasn't a target worthy of SIGMA Operatives - to mark locations for Kinetic Strikes, before the OD3's had dropped in, the Marines had flown in, and the Army had _rushed_ in. The Commandos could see it, even from this far away, the battle was being hard-fought, the Batarians weren't giving an inch, and the Humans were giving no quarter.

"Move." Boris ordered, and with that, his six cloaked commandos moved as one.

Their feet barely disturbed the dusty, war-torn, debris-strewn ground as they moved to the city's outskirts. Their advanced visors scanned their environment and placed a digital overlay upon it, marking important objects with yellow outlines, enemies with red outlines, friendlies with blue outlines, and everything else was outlined at the edges with green. The sky above was marked with hundreds of small, ever-moving dots, representing the Alliance Air/Space Force, and the slowly increasing blue and red masses would mark the ground forces, both friendly and not.

_"Commander, twelve high."_ Advised one of the Commandoes, an ex-N7 Marine.

Boris looked up, and saw hundreds of massive fireballs descending through the atmosphere. They were far too big for them to be Orbital Dropping Death Dealers, or SIGMAs making 'naked' drops, so that only left drones. "Drones." Boris said, inwardly smiling. The Alliance obviously thought this was a _big_ target, there had to be Human slaves here, a _lot_ of Human slaves. They were deploying TITAN forces, which wasn't that big of a deal, but the only TITANs that could survive atmospheric deployments, were the drones' namesakes themselves, Titan-class mechanized infantry. The massive, Mark Three machines, stood tall at thirty six feet, a massive upgrade from the GenOne Mark One Titans, used during the Second Contact War, which stood at eighteen feet. Mark Three Titans, humanoid, massive infantry, were admittedly underused and under numbered, numbering at only five thousand total, as opposed to the tens of thousands of Wolves, Turtles, Scorpions, and the recent Dragons and Hornets. The Titan mechs, and the Turtle Mechs, were the only ones capable of using miniature Rail Guns as their primary weapons; they both had turrets and other weapons, but their main sources of destruction came from the massive magnetic accelerator cannons they wielded.

The Titans themselves were most commonly used for shock-and-awe, but were commonly used, thanks to their mechanized status, and that the AI's could remotely pilot multiple units at once, not at all like the prototype Sapiens Military Mechs, which required an _entire_ AI Disk to function. Though, the namesake mechs, the massive thirty six foot tall humanoid Titans, they were the most uncommonly seen mechs, so if they were being used for this siege, it had to be an important target. Before Boris ordered his squad to continue on, he entertained the thought that the Alliance _knew_ about the Nuke, or, at the very least, knew that something was going to happen in the city, that involved a Nuclear Weapon.

An hour passed, before they finally reached the city's outskirts. There were hundreds of yards of blank, open plains, that Boris immediately recognized as bomb-sites and no-mans-lands. The Alliance -or, he never knew, perhaps it was the Batarians! - had obviously bombed the surrounding areas to make flatlands - or relatively flatlands - upon which they could create the prerequisite no-mans-lands, that was needed when occupying a city. Unfortunately for the Humans, and the Commandos who were about to cross it, the no-mans-land worked both ways, as the Alliance had stormed it hours ago, it had claimed many lives, and now that the Batarians were forced to retreat through it, it was again claiming many lives, thanks to the straggling Human forces and the mechs and vehicles that had stayed behind.

"Three…" Boris began the countdown, deactivating his active camouflage as he braced himself for a long sprint. He could see bodies littering the rubble, either atop it or covered by it. He could see in the distance, anti-aircraft fire soaring through the air and in between the city's massive buildings.

"Two…" Boris crouched low and bent his knees. A bomber suddenly flew out of the air and into the city at high speeds. It weaved in and out of the buildings as several Batarian Fighters tracked it and fired upon it. It took several hits before it finally dropped its payload, and then exploded in a massive fireball. The Batarian fighters rocketed out of the fireball, to be met by the Alliance A/SF fighters that had been rushing to help their buddy, only to be a second to late to save him. The Alliance Fighters tore into the Batarian fighters, killing two and injuring the third, which tried to retreat, but was destroyed by the missiles from a gunship, which was climbing high to get a better vantage point, and a lock on its next ground target.

_"ONE!"_ Boris and the Commandos tore off across the battlefield. Immediately it seemed to come alive, as Alliance _and_ Batarian automated mortar targeters saw them, failed to recognize them as allied targets, and immediately chose to tag them as enemies. The ground around and behind them exploded, but the Cerberus Commandos were just barely managing to outrun the mortars, thanks to their advanced power armor.

"God _damn_, Commander! I love this armor!" Shouted a Commando, just a few seconds later, after they broke city-limits and took a moment to take cover in an alley, and catch their breath.

"Too bad you're not keeping it, el-tee." Quipped one of the other Commandos, as she stretched her back, and checked her rifle thereafter.

Boris too checked his rifle, making sure it hadn't been damaged by the mortar fire. It had some dust on its barrel, but a quick wipe with his skin suit solved that. They stayed stationary for another minute, before Boris requested a heading.

"North, northwest. About zero point three two klicks." Responded a Commando.

"Alright, move out." Boris ordered.

The six Commandos spread out into a 'V' formation, Boris had their front, Jess and Vin had the sides, Joe and Lamar had the rooftops, and William was the lucky lone operative who watched their rear side. When they reached the edge of the alley, they all froze and activated their camouflage modules in one fell swoop, because they'd unintentionally stumbled _directly_ onto an ongoing skirmish between Human and Quarian forces, and their Batarian enemies.

The battle seemed to be going poorly for both sides. The Humans had been sent into a bad situation, that much was apparent. _Every_ single Batarian in the city seemed to be taking up arms and firing at them, the slaves too, brainwashed as they were. But the superior technology of the Alliance still won out, and the raw firepower of the Human race was bringing the Batarians into submission.

"Bill. Throw a gas grenade into the Human ranks." Boris ordered, "form up when you're through." They moved out.

They had been equipped with chemical weapons, tailored exclusively so that only Batarians would be immune to it. When word got out and the cloud spread, the Alliance would realize that the Batarians were deploying chemical and biological weapons, the only Human and Quarian forces that could survive that would be Human Special Forces, and Quarians without suit punctures. Then, when the Nuke went off, it would be the very last straw for the Alliance.

"Tossing Gas." Said William, as he lobbed the bio-terror grenade into the midst of the Humans. Immediately a cloud of dark-green gas hugged the ground and enveloped the Alliance forces, who _instantly_ began breathing it in and feeling its adverse effects.

Boris only had a second to see Cerberus' biological weapons work their magic, before the cloud enveloped him and removed his visibility. The Human Soldier had begun clawing at his throat, as the agent ate his body from the inside out. His eyes had begun to bleed and pop - literally _pop - _just as the cloud grew, thanks to the grenade's secondary detonation. Boris switched to thermal vision, and they continued forth. Their target building was, intentionally, the most Human looking of them all.

Human skyscrapers had, ever since the dawn of the twenty first century, either been large spires or enormous obelisks. Their target building was part of the latter party, and was interestingly enough, the smallest of its brother and sister buildings. Boris had been able to catch a glimpse of it before the cloud enveloped him. It had had its entire top section sheared off, whether it was by Human or Batarian missile strikes, or simple bad luck, he didn't know, but he was able see the fires raging from his vantage point, far beneath the building.

"Sir, contact left!" Shouted a Commando, just as soon as they exited the still-growing cloud. Immediately heavy cannon-fire raked their position and slammed into their shields, the commandos - all of them ex-special forces - acted upon instinct and ran forward for the nearest available cover, which came to them in the form of a destroyed Alliance Tank, its rail gun melted and smoldering. The Batarian Ground Combat Vehicle raked their position with heavy fire, as its soldiers no doubt began closing the distance between them.

_"Vin! Fire sphere!"_ Boris shouted.

"Fire Sphere Copy! On your word!"

"Suppressing fire!" Boris swung out of cover and instantly started taking targets. His suppressed Special Forces Rifle spat quiet lead at the Batarians, two shots into their shields and one into their brains, he had taken two down in twice as many seconds, before he ordered Vin to launch the sphere.

The Fire Sphere was, essentially, an under barrel projectile, which flew into the air like a Frisbee, and then floated in the air like a drone. It spun at blinding, blistering speeds, and its massive batteries allowed it to fire its energy-projectiles for a full six seconds before it self destructed. The laser fire was enough to incinerate its target, the Batarian Vehicle, in half that time, but they made sure and let it drain its battery. Six seconds passed before all six Commandoes broke cover and swiftly - and mercilessly - dealt with the remaining Batarians.

_"We move!"_ Boris roared, and his squad - abandoning their camouflage - thundered down the battle-torn streets.

The Cerberus soldiers weaved into and out of combat, racking up a large body count as they sprinted to their goal. Fifteen minutes passed before they finally made their destination, in a quieter part of the city. The second one of them entered the building, they realized _why_ it was quiet, and _why_ someone had attempted to fell the building. Vin screamed and shouted as he was raked with high-caliber auto-turret and machine gun fire. His Smart Skin's computers instantly caught on that he was dead, and in the second it took for him to hit the ground, had already become white-hot. Six seconds after that his skin was bubbly, and ten seconds following that he was inflamed and melting.

"They've got auto turrets!" Jess shouted, as they took cover from the cannon fire.

"Vin had our EMP Grenades!"

"Pop smoke!" Boris ordered, before he did just that. His squad followed suit, and the thermal-masking smoke filled the building. Immediately their position was raked with desperate fire, but they had been prepared for that, too.

"Deploying shield! Ten seconds!" Shouted William, before he shoved his right arm forward, and his smart-watch's holographic generator synched up with his armor's energy shields, and formed a nigh-indestructible, circular hard-light barrier.

William vaulted over his cover, and charged forward, his squad behind him and firing into the building, using their HUDs to find the enemies, mark them, and kill them. They entered after three seconds, and their last Fire Sphere was used to take down the auto-turret. Boris rued that they didn't have an AI to hack the turret, but to take an AI on a suicide mission was deemed 'too expensive', so they'd had to make do.

"Jess, bomb!"

"Give me cover!" Shouted Jess, as she vaulted into a small octagon created by cubicles and pressed a command on her smart-watch. Immediately an exit-warp appeared, and she called out "Two Minutes!"

"The Alliance comm-chatter just picked up, they're making for this building!"

"Did they notice the tear?!"

"Negative!"

"Kill all sons of bitches!" Shouted Lamar, before he set up behind cover and then let loose with his Light Machine Gun. The Alliance forces - who, Boris realized, were wearing N7 armor - immediately were pinned down, with two dying outright. A full second passed before the Alliance forces responded with their own gunfire, obviously realizing that the black-white-and-golden armored figured inside weren't friendly.

"They've got numbers on us!"

"Gas grenades won't work!"

"Pyro! Toss 'em!" The squad had been equipped with a single incendiary grenade for each man, and they all threw them simultaneously, creating a burning circle of fire at the building's entrance, melting it and burning the unlucky N7 alive in the extinguisher-resistant flames.

"Thirty seconds!"

"Give 'em hell!"

Gunfire flew across the battlefield from both ends. The smoke from the earlier grenades were finally clearing, and Boris realized the mistake he'd made, just as the bomb came through the portal. A _single_ SIGMA operative, most probably the city's designated SIGMA, had breached their perimeter, and was already making to report his findings. The Commandos shifted fire onto him, but he activated his own hardlight shield, retreating as he did so.

"OD3, watching the action!"

"Get him!"

"Firing!"

"The bomb's here!"

"Set the timer!"

"Two minutes!"

"We're getting overrun!"

It had only taken six seconds, but in that six seconds dozens of enemy soldiers, marines, and N7, had all appeared and were all making desperate pushes for the Cerberus Operatives. Boris knew that either someone in Intel had dropped the ball, or the bomb was _too_ recognizable for their own good.

"Bomb them!" Boris saw no other route. Another feature hidden in their armor was a single pound of explosives, with enough force to incinerate their bodies and whatever their target was. No evidence, and definitely not enough force to crack the nuke's casing. The Cerberus squad waited ten seconds exactly, and when the lull in the fire came, they jumped cover and bolted. Five explosions in as many seconds, and one SIGMA, two N7, and many more marines and soldiers were dead and injured, and just like that, the once dedicated Cerberus operatives were nothing more than ash and molten flesh.

* * *

><p>Bill Sampson could hear the dead silence of the battlefield. The second <em>one<em> person had called Atom Bomb, word of mouth had carried it all through the city, and the battle _halted,_ as hostilities were forgotten in the simple struggle to outrun and survive nuclear Armageddon. Sampson had set a clock for thirty seconds, and all he had was ten seconds left, and he was certain he hadn't hit the Minimum Safe Distance.

Sampson pushed his battered body as far as it would go, assisted along the way by his power armor. He ran as fast as he could, as far as he could, and as quickly as he could do so. He scaled a hill that had, when he'd rushed down it earlier that day, had seemed small, but now felt like a miniature _mountain._ He reached the top and leapt, hoping to put as much distance between him and the city as possible. As he reached the top of his cybernetically assisted vault, the timer reached zero, and time seemed to slow down.

The first thing he heard was the simple, utter silence. Then the loud thunderclap, that sounded like a thousand Rail Guns firing, in atmosphere, at the same time, only to have their projectiles slam into each other at speeds the low percentage of light speed. The EMP was the first thing to hit him, though his suit was, thankfully, hardened against such attack, but it did unfortunately take out his shields. The next thing to hit him was the shockwave, which propelled him forward several dozen meters. He slammed into the ground with a bone-breaking _crunch,_ his shields having been hit by the EMP, he had nothing to break the fall. He felt several of his bones crack and break, but that was nothing compared to the heat wave that came next.

The hill had absorbed a lot of it, and his armor had taken much more, but it still burned and seared at his back for several seconds, before it dissipated. Sampson stayed still for what felt like an eternity, before he started coughing violently. Blood splattered onto his helmet. He slowly - achingly - got to his feet. He ripped off his helmet and vomited blood onto the ground, the suit had never felt so heavy.

Some sort of morbid curiosity drove the Death Dealer to drag his way up the hill, he had to see the city, he didn't know why. It took him several, painful minutes to reach the crest, and the image he saw would be burned into his mind just like the scar would be burned upon this world, with nuclear fire.

The sky was blood red, the city had been flattened and turned to glass. The planes in front of him were on fire. Air vehicles, Human and Batarian, that were too unfortunate to be unshielded for EMP's were hurtling towards the ground, exploding violently, and killing their pilots. In the distance, Sampson saw the horrifying sight, the enormous mushroom cloud, extending high into the sky. The cloud was still bright white, it still carrying blisteringly hot flames with it.

Sampson had been so enraptured and distracted by the beauty of annihilation, that he didn't hear the Batarian rushing towards hum until he felt the knife slip between his armor plating. His armor, thankfully, still functioned, and the second it felt the foreign object, it clamped down and sealed itself shut _tight,_ the blade had pierced his Smart Skin suit and had drawn blood, but nothing like it would have, had he been wearing N7, Marine, or Army armor. Sampson acted on instinct and slammed the back of his fist into the Batarian, who pulled out a pistol and aimed it at the man.

Sampson shielded his face with his arms, and his armor was fortunately enough to block the two shots the pistol had before it overheated. Sampson acted quickly and hurled his helmet at the Batarian, the helmet slammed into the Batarian's nose with a loud 'crunch', and Sampson tackled the alien to the ground. Six blows to the face ended the sobbing Batarian's resistance.

_"Why?!"_ It managed to croak, stopping Sampson, giving him time to look at his handiwork: its nose was broken, and two of its four eyes swelled shut, blood covered its face. _"You monsters…"_ It looked at the cloud in the distance, just as it began to rain. _"You… You monsters…"_ The black rain mixed with the dark red blood and washed it from his face, though the beings' tears weren't lost on the Death Dealer. _"You killed them all… What did we truly do to you?!" _He sobbed.

"You enslaved millions to -"

_"To sustain our race! Our way of life!"_ The Batarian roared, "the same way your people do _war_ to preserve your race! To preserve _your_ way of life!"

_"That_ wasn't my people!" Sampson roared in defiance.

_"It wasn't ours! We do many things, Human, but we don't kill our own! We don't drop weapons of mass destruction because we might lose a colony!" _The Batarian cried, his entire body going slack out of simple defeat. "Kill me… Do what your _race_ has gotten good at. Do what its only good at… And end me in the name of your _ideals…_ Of your _wars."_ He spat on Sampson's face.

Sampson gave the Batarian what he wanted, he drew his pistol and fired, just a second before he heard something faint, coming from the speakers in his helmet. He crawled over to it, his suit suddenly becoming twice as heavy as it had been before, now that the adrenaline rush was wearing off and his injuries were revealing themselves again. Sampson grabbed the helmet and jammed it back on his head, hearing the faint hiss as it sealed itself from the contaminated environment around it.

_"This is Sergeant Bill Samp -"_ Sampson began, but was interrupted.

_"All Alliance forces in the vicinity of grid Two-Two-Three Charlie, evacuation order April is in effect. The radiation cloud is being carried to Ground Zero's southwest, we are calling to Arcturus to get NEST Teams in with Terraforming Disks, we have medical and emergency transport personnel en route. If you can hear this, pop green flares to signal your position for evac!"_ Came the voice of Admiral Hans Griebun.

Sampson could feel his suit getting heavier by the second, so he did what the voice said, and took out his two green flares. He barely heard the whomp-whomp-whomping of Alliance Shuttlecraft behind him, as they screamed towards the blast zone and searched for survivors. Sampson aimed the flare gun to the sky and fired, before he popped the second flare and then let his body finally shut down, hopefully they would see him, but as he saw the _literally_ thousands of other flares launch into the air, he knew evac might be a while.

Sampson lost consciousness just a few seconds after he hit the ground, his last sight before his eyes shut was of the mushroom cloud.


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

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><p>"<em>I can't hold a glass of wine yet But they think it's fine to Have me hold a gun Kill a man or kill his son" <em>

— _**Company of Thieves, "Quiet on the Front"**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>April 3<strong>__**rd**__**, 2216**_

* * *

><p>John 'Shatner' S2-15 was uncomfortable. He had been trained since childhood to be a Special Forces killer. He had been attacked at the drop of a hat by the Human race's - and arguably, the entire <em>galaxy's -<em> most trained, efficient, lethal killers, and had as a result been paralyzed more times than he could count. His body had been trained to be able to withstand _weeks_ of torture, to be able to go for days without food and water, and to be able to lift at the bare minimum, twice its weight. His mind had been trained so that it not only had an IQ twice that of an average boy his age, but so that it could recognize almost every model of any firearm it could get the hands it controlled on, and so it could use said weapons in the most efficient way that would bring about the death of its target. He had even been through the beginning shots of a _war._ He himself was a child soldier, trained _only_ to kill the Human race's enemies; the military was _all_ the young man knew, it was all he would ever know, and after spending so long in it, it was all he ever _wanted_ to know. He was so comfortable in this lifestyle, the lifestyle of a child soldier, that the lifestyle of any normal male of his age simply made the SIGMA Teen uncomfortable. John S2-15 did _not_ _like_ being uncomfortable, in any situation.

Many situations made the child soldier uncomfortable, a great many of them involved Ducard speaking quietly to him, but he had learned this day that there were a great many _other_ things that made him uncomfortable, such as, playing video games, in the home of a teenage woman, who had - if only temporarily - been in the same situation as he had been. John hadn't even _heard_ of video games, not until Miranda had suggested playing some ancient series that had undergone what she called a 'generational reboot', and though John had no idea what that meant, he hadn't the mind to ask, because he lacked the desire to know. All he did know is that Miranda had called it 'Halo', and he had called it 'a little too close to home'. The two had been playing the game's 'campaign', which apparently meant that the game had some sort of story behind it, like a book, or a film, for several hours now. John had, during that time, managed to catch at least eighty different, separate occurrences in which _any_ rationally thinking military man, in the same position that John had been placed in, would have acted anywhere from slightly to _vastly_ differently, but Miranda had told him that it was all a part of the game.

That didn't stop John from eventually getting tired and frustrated with it. His hands were more trained for weapons, not confusing controllers, his eyes were trained to spot even the slightest of discrepancies in any possible environment, not for looking through virtual reality headsets, both of these devices he had nearly broken on several occasions due to impulse and reflexes honed to combat; his mind was geared more towards _war, _to finding creative, life and limb-effective ways of solving a situation and eliminating an enemy, not overcoming the problems of what Miranda had called a 'physics engine'. Nor did Miranda's best efforts to make John appear like a normal Human child bear fruit at dulling his ingrained, instinctual training. Every fifteen minutes, and not a _second_ more, John found himself scanning his environment, thankfully in an inconspicuous way, but still doing so. It had put Miranda on edge, John could tell that his actions were making her think her ruse was falling apart, but John knew that the cloaked guard in the room hadn't caught on to anything, save for, _maybe_, the fact that John had a far less colorful vocabulary than the girl next to him.

Another situation John had not found himself prepared for, which Miranda and He were currently recovering from now, was a sport Miranda had called 'Tennis'. It was, apparently, a rather popular sport on Roof, with its 1.5 times Higher-Than-Earth Gravity, and thus a more present challenge, but thousands of people played it on Earth every day. Though, to say John was unprepared for it, would be to refer to the fact that he did not know the rules to the game. John was, physically, absolutely prepared for the game, the second Miranda had given him a 'crash course' in the rules of the game, he knew instantly how best to overcome her without the use of his biotics, how best to strike the ball, where to aim for an optimal landing zone, among many others.

In the half hour they had played the game, John had barely worked up a higher heart rate, let alone a sweat, while Miranda was profusely sweating, in the hot Australian sun. She had complained about the unseasonably hot weather, but John hadn't noticed at all. He was used to Sparta's half-year blisteringly hot weather, and then half-year freezing cold weather. Miranda had, however, made mention of the fact that this had been the most fun game she'd played, that half hour had consisted entirely of John making score after score on the former-SIGMA Teen; their session had only ended when Miranda finally broke down and used biotics to increase the mass of the ball, which made it fall to the ground before John could notice the telltale signs of Element Zero Field Manipulation. The Asari teacher that had given him and the sixty other SIGMA Teens Commando-level lessons on Biotics, had been _extremely_ thorough, though John knew that if she'd been here, she most likely would have punished him severely for not catching Miranda's trick.

When the game was finally finished, a profusely sweating and panting Miranda doubled over and caught her breath, while John, after realizing that this wasn't a ruse to lower his guard, simply stretched his arms and scanned his environment.

"It took me… A half hour…" Breathed a tired Miranda, who had actually kept up with her physical exercise the past year, but had fallen _far_ out of line of what would be expected of her on Sparta, thus her exhaustion. With each passing moment, John was having less and less confidence in her ability to stack up with him if things got loud, later on. "To get just _one_ point…" She laughed, as she saw John take a large swig from his water bottle, completely unaware that he had only done so, so he would have an excuse to tilt his head back and scan his six O' clock, he saw no guards, and no tell-tale shimmer from a tactical cloak. "And you said you were…" She paused, knowing that they were alone, but still wanting to choose her words carefully, "leaving the Junior ROTC, to go to the regular cadets?" John nodded, and she shook her head, "god help us all." She chuckled.

John didn't laugh, but he did take an honest swig of water. He felt the cool liquid run down his throat, and couldn't help but steal a peek to the sky. Miranda noticed, and brought her voice down as low as she could, "I checked the satellite patterns, after you mentioned it. Unless they've got drones looking at us, we're clear for another hour or so, before some Korean 'communications' satellite passes over us." She took a gulp from her bottle, and crushed its empty carcass. John had scanned the skies again at her mention of drones, but thankfully he hadn't seen any, even though Sub-orbital Unmanned Aerial Vehicles were designed almost entirely for stealth, they could be detected by the telltale sheen of reflected sunlight, even a tactical cloak couldn't completely mask that. John hadn't discounted that there were SOUAV's being launched, but there weren't any anywhere near them.

In spite of it all, John had one thing he had to ask her, "how can you check Alliance Satellite Patterns?"

Miranda grinned, "I'm far more intuitive than you give me credit for."

"No, _how?"_ John pressed, knowing they were safe enough to discuss this. "Alliance Cyber Security is tough even for the STG to break through. How'd _you_ crack it?"

Miranda stared at John a moment, before she huffed, "the man I spoke to left a few backdoors open into his own system. A few hours of searching found that _he_ had the access, so I'd ask _him."_ John's silence beckoned Miranda to pick back up her act, "Have you ever watched a movie, before?" Miranda asked, honestly.

"War footage." Was John's answer. On important holidays, such as the Alliance Formation Day, New Year's, and Christmas to name a few, the SIGMA II's were given breaks, in which they were allowed to mingle amongst themselves for a few hours out of the day, eat imported foods, and watch war-footage movies. They were expected to dissect the mistakes of previous generations of Human Warriors, learn from them, and improve upon them.

"You sir, need to watch _The Dark Knight." _

"I've never heard of it." John assumed it was some sort of war movie, focusing on Special Operations soldiers.

"It's an _ancient_ comic-book adaptation movie, McGraw actually had to look after me one day, and forced me to sit through it. It was the only positive memory I had of the day, it was amazing."

"What is a comic book?" Asked a bewildered child soldier.

Miranda was silent and still for a complete fifteen seconds, as she stared at John, who stared back, his blue eyes and slight scowl betraying none of the confused thoughts behind his mind. In one day alone, Miranda had made so many 'normal-life' references that they had made the soldier's head spin.

Miranda eventually settled for a shake of the head. She tapped John on the cheek a few times, in an apologetic way, and then said, "you poor, poor, uncultured soul. I've got a lot to teach you about in the next…" She checked the sky, then her smart-watch, "oh… Three hours." John caught on, it was her own creative way to sneak in their time-frame, under the radar of any possible listeners. Three more hours of the awful, uncomfortable feelings, then John would be able to get back into what he knew: Battle.

The two headed inside and went for Miranda's home-theater. She instructed John to sit down on the right chair, of the three that were in the small, dark room. Immediately John's instincts warned him that this was _not_ a place he would want to be in a battle, and when Miranda dimmed the lights and started the movie, those feelings mixed with his uncomfortability, and only made him feel more out of place. This was an enclosed, dark place, there was an intense light source in front of them that would hurt their natural night vision to the area around them, that meant an Assassin could sneak in without them knowing and they would have no defense for a sneak attack. As well, the home theater was an enclosed space, so a _single_ bomb blast could kill them both in an instant; or, at the very least, injure them both grievously. John surreptitiously adjusted his right leg, and felt the reassuring feeling of his gun pressing up against his thigh; he then thought of raising his barriers, just in case, but unexpected contact from Miranda wiped his mind clean of thought entirely.

She'd sat down on the chair next to John's, the center one, but hadn't settled back like the soldier had. Instead, she'd raised the arm of her chair and had wrapped both of her arms around his left, leaning upon him and bringing her shoeless feet up to the chair itself. It took an entire three seconds of blank mindedness before John's mind instinctually went to all the reasons that this was a _bad_ situation. First and foremost, Miranda was effectively pinning him to the chair, by doing this, so he would not be able to jump to his feet if an attacker came into the room and made an attempt on their lives. Secondly, but just as important, he had no honest idea what to _make_ of this. There was some odd, confusingly warm feeling in his chest, similar to the feeling he'd gotten the first time he'd eaten spoiled meat, and had been in the bathroom for hours as he violently vomited up everything he'd eaten the previous few days. But the feeling wasn't as uncomfortable as it had been when he was sick, if anything, it felt oddly refreshing, like a blast of cold air or a splash of cold water after a several-day training session with no sleep. The warmness in his chest seemed to permeate through to his head, and something seemed to break, and all the pressure that had been building inside of it, from the thoughts of the Alliance catching him, the plans for plans, for contingency plans, _of_ contingency plans, should Henry Lawson ever discover John was not who he said he was, all the pressure seemed to simply flow away, as the motion picture began playing in front of him. Before John became enraptured by the centuries-old film, he eventually came to the decision that Miranda was doing this entirely for the act she had set up, over the past few months; that seemed to do the trick, because the warm feeling soon went away and the familiar pressure came back.

* * *

><p>"Director, I do not think initiating Rug Protocol would be the best -" Joseph Ducard was interrupted by an irate Alliance Director for Augmented Affairs.<p>

"I just got off the phone with Directors Serios and Tyson. I had to interrupt an _emergency meeting_ of the Board of Directors, in order to get clearance to do this! Are you aware the Batarians dropped a _Nuke_ on one of their planets?" The deeply southern accented Director demanded, _"__no!_ You're not! You're more worried about the subtleties of whether or not I should freeze _all_ inwards and outwards bound space traffic by initiating the Rug Protocol!" He roared, "It's been _hours,_ Ducard! John-S2-15 has been missing for _hours, _and _all_ you've got for me is some report on the Lawson household!" The Director roared, "He could, for all we know, be halfway to the _Citadel_ by this point! Or, god forbid, the _Rebels!_ Do you _know_ what that will do to the Alliance, and the Board, if he talked? I've already given the go-ahead, the Rug Protocol has been initiated. We have twenty four hours, under the pretense of a mandatory drill, to either _find_ him on Earth, or decide beyond the shadow of a doubt that he _isn't_ on the Earth!"

Ducard could feel a shiver run down his spine. The Alliance's Rug Protocol was an alien-contact safety contingency. If enacted, it shut down _all_ inward and outward bound space traffic from a system, and forced any and all Human ships in the affected system to purge _all_ data pertaining to star-charts, colony locations, population figures, medical data, the works. But what was focused upon more than anything was Earth, Earth was to be protected more than anything else, more than Eden, more than Sparta, more than _Arcturus Station._ The Rug Protocol was, at its core, akin to sweeping the Earth's location under a rug.

That Leonard Trent had gotten the clearance to enact it in the Sol System, of _all _places, only served to restate the direness of _losing_ a SIGMA Operative.

"We have it on good authority, Director, he's still in Australia. Our SUAV's are scanning the streets and the buildings, he's not in any of the cities, and all ships that have left the wet-ports have been searched thoroughly." He implored, "all that's left are the private properties out in the savannas and lower-population areas."

"Then I want everything we have. Security Cameras, satellites, everything we can use to find him, I want it being used! And the second we find him, I you to make sure this _never_ happens again!_"_ Trent stated.

"Clarify, sir." The SIGMA Veteran requested.

"I got clearance from Serios. The Home Fleet is under our command until we find him. Specifically of use to us, the Orbital Dropping Death Dealers Earth Defense Battalions, the Alliance Marines in the H-Fleet, and the N7 Operatives that have yet to be transferred to a fleet that is en-route to Batarian Space." Trent explained.

"Sir…" Ducard hesitated, "how will we keep the deployment of _all_ Home Fleet Ground Forces a secret?" He asked, "our training exercises are usually in the United States, in Russia, Greenland, or in Egypt… Not Australia… Sir."

"I'll work on a story when I have _time,_ Commander. Now _find him!"_ Trent sat down and immediately opened his laptop, Ducard could see the stress in his eyes and on his face before the communications uplink was severed.

Ducard sincerely hoped John hadn't deserted, just to try and escape the program. He could tell just by looking at Trent's holographic form, the man was considering executing the child.

* * *

><p>John-S2-15 had <em>never<em> seen something like that which Miranda had made him sit through. Even now, long after the film had ended, and they were eating their dinner, he couldn't wrap his mind around what he'd seen. The war footage he'd watched on Sparta _paled_ in comparison to the movie, which was - according to Miranda - over _two hundred years old._ He almost salivated, thinking of what movies made now, looked like, if that movie was _that_ good. Was _this_ what it was like to be a normal child?

Of course, the thoughts about the film and normalcy had been blasted from his mind the second he'd tasted the food upon his plate. Miranda's father had spared no expense, when she'd asked him if John could stay the night. His condition would that he would be staying in the guest room, _far_ away from Miranda's room. John fully understood why he'd done that, but he didn't think about it long as he took his first bite of Spaghetti. The flavor of the sauce, the texture of the noodles, and the tenderness of the sausage all made his mind melt from the first bite alone. John almost regretted his instinctually fast eating habits, but paid it no mind as he was told he could make another plate.

Henry noticed that John had eaten the food fast, and was already - just forty six seconds after making the plate - halfway through his second helping, while he and Miranda were barely a quarter of the way done with their first meal. John had noticed that Miranda's eating skills had definitely diminished over the last year, but with food like _this,_ he couldn't honestly blame her, much.

"You must truly be dedicated to the military, John." Henry commented, as he watched the teenager rampage through his meal like an Olympic Sprinter would tear across the finish line. "I've never seen anyone eat so fast, before."

John counted himself lucky that he'd stuffed his face full of food when Henry had spoken, it gave him a few moments to formulate a response. He swallowed the food with a loud gulp, "at the Shelter… It's kind of every man for himself, when it comes to food." John had remembered their first Christmas, when the SIGMAs had provided six - admittedly military-style - pizzas, that had been gone before John could even had smelled it, he drew upon that experience for the authenticity of his story. "When the food is good, you have to eat it fast, and hope you can get more." To accentuate his point, the SIGMA with the bottomless pit of a stomach, went for a third plate. Silently, he added, _and weigh whether or not they are going to surprise you with an intense training drill._

"I see…" Said Henry, as he bit into his steak. "So tell me, John… What is so appealing about military service? I've heard a few of your conversations with Miranda, a man as informed as you, I would think you might have a chance in politics."

John shook his head, and swallowed another mouthful. "When you go home, tell them of us and say, For their tomorrow, we gave our today." He received blank stares, "The politicians fight with words. The soldiers fight with their lives." He simplified.

"Have you thought about any specific branch?"

"He's told me _all about_ the Marines, father." Miranda chimed in, John nodded in agreement, as he continued burning through food.

John didn't miss the twitch-grin that had grown and disappeared from Henry's face. He wondered if he was recalling sending Miranda off to Sparta. "Why the Marine Corps, John? You could join the Army, and settle down on a planet, instead of being forced to pick up and move with your fleet." Obviously this man knew little about the military, "or you could join the navy and be in even less danger." Extremely little.

"The Army isn't totally stationary, sir." Said John, "it is true, that the Army tends to be anchored to one planet or another, but in times of war they're picked up and brought along with the Marines. And being in the navy is a bigger risk than being in the Marines, you risk being thrown out into space if your ship's hull gets breached." He explained. "And the A/SF, if you're going to ask, is even less safe. Probably the least safe out of the standard branches. At least if you're in the Army you've got a planet, and the Marines and Sailors have their ships. A/SF pilots have just their fighters and their shuttles protecting them from the void."

"Interesting…" Said Henry.

The dinner continued in silence for several more minutes. It was around John's fifth helping that he finally slowed down, but that was due to instinct and training, more than a dwindling appetite. His rational mind finally kicked in and told him that running around on a mission, on an overfilled stomach, would be disastrous for their chances of success. Of course, then the argument could be made that, if he had to make extensive use of his biotics, he would _need_ this food, and it was with that mindset that John deigned to finish this plate and be done after that.

Henry's next words would not be the last time that John would completely freeze this night, however. "So, Miranda, did you hear?" He asked, "the Batarians dropped a nuclear weapon on Alliance Forces."

John blinked, his eyes widening of their own accord, as his body continued eating the food on auto-pilot. Immediately war scenarios started playing out in his head. SIGMAs were probably already being deployed, the Alliance was most probably considering nuclear options of their own, they were most likely going to take this war a lot more slowly than they had been, to give time for a probable War Economy to take full effect. John also came to the conclusion that a Draft would be likely, though would probably be avoided by a possible swift victory. If they even needed a War Economy, was another thought that ran through the teenager's mind, before Miranda brought him out.

"John?"

He _had_ to pick now to abandon the Alliance. What was his sense of duty for a single good meal, and several hours of unquantifiable levels of discomfort?

"John, hello?" Miranda ripped him from his thoughts.

"What." He said.

"My father's gone." Miranda deadpanned, "and you've been chewing that one bite of food for five minutes, now… What's wrong?"

"They nuked Siler?"

"Yes, apparently. I think Tyson's going to address the Alliance tomorrow." Miranda answered.

"We need to get this done, Miranda." John stated, swallowing his food. "I can't stay out for long, especially not with this happening." He powered through his food as Miranda responded to him.

"I've already got a plan worked out. I've got the mansion's power hooked up to my Smart Watch, and that will hopefully open up the hatch to the facility underneath -"

"Facility?" John clarified, "wasn't this a simple escape job?" He asked.

"I told you, there were two packages." Miranda's voice had suddenly taken a cold edge. "Myself… And someone else."

"Who?"

Miranda sighed, "my father had a contingency plan in place, should he have had to 'start again'… He called her Oriana."

"He grew another one?" John didn't believe it, what kind of sick man grew kids when his initial ones didn't work out?

Miranda nodded, "we've got to rescue her. Even if I can't make it out, I want her to get out of here." She stated, firmly.

"What's your extraction plan?"

"I've got a… Intuitive Man, let's call him… Waiting a few kilometers to the north of here, in a forest clearing. He's got his own ship and he'll be taking me out of the Sol System, to somewhere safe."

"You trust this Intuitive Man?" John asked, seriously.

"He got me the information, that helped get me this far. There aren't many more people I'd trust as I do him." She said.

"Infiltration and Extraction." John said, "break into the facility and high-tail it to a forest three kilometers to the north. How do we exfiltrate the mansion's grounds? Those walls were pretty high, and I don't have any TITAN Armor." John stated.

Miranda nodded, "I've got it covered."

John nodded too, "I'll be awake all night. You come to my room and knock when its time." John rapped the table five times, then twice, reveling in the feeling of the military-mindset, returning to him and banishing the uncomfortable thoughts and feelings that had clouded his mind the entire day.

* * *

><p>John had been true to his word, he'd been awake for exactly sixty one minutes, twenty seconds. He'd counted each and every second he'd been awake, waiting for the clarion to be sounded. His gun had been cleaned and loaded at least six times, before he laid upon the bed and simply settled in to wait. The darkness of the room had quickly undone itself when his eyes had adjusted, and now he could see every detail of the ceiling above him. The cracks, the crevices, the small bumps and irregularities in the paint, he noticed it all and had nearly committed it to memory, when five knocks tapped on the door, then a pause, and then came two more.<p>

In an instant he was on his feet, in a second he was at the door, his gun in his hand. In two, the door was open and Miranda was there, her SIGMA II fatigues on, and a dark gray sweatshirt covering her top. She had a pair of tight leather gloves covering her hands, and the Special Forces Pistol secured tightly to her belt.

John stared at her for a moment, before he took one look at the pistol, and that was all it took for Miranda to hear the unanswered question. "My father took it when I came home, but it only took me a day to figure out where he'd put it. Bi-monthly, I've been making sure it's still there, and I cleaned it yesterday."

John shook his head, and snatched the pistol out of its holster. He sheathed his own weapon and then cracked the sliding mechanism off of the gun, he showed her the weapon, which was missing the firing pin.

_"Assume Worst: __He knows."_ Was all John said, before he ejected the magazine, took the magazines from Miranda's belt, and nodded for her to guide them to where they needed to go.

The strong image Miranda had built when they'd spoken earlier seemed to falter, as they snuck through the house. But it only took it a few minutes for the faltering to end, and just like that, they were two soldiers, accomplishing a mission. The house seemed eerily quiet to the girl, who was used to some sort of life permeating its walls, even after dark, when she had - for the last year - prowled its halls, looking for the information her father had kept from her; she eventually just wrote off the quiet as nerves, and bade John to descend the stairs with her. To John, however, the silence screamed of traps, of ambushes lying in wait, of armed men simply waiting to cross paths and for a firefight to begin.

John stopped Miranda with a hand on her shoulder, she turned around, an eyebrow raised. John was silent, he raised one finger over his lip, and when she nodded, John took the lead. He was crouched low, and he hugged the banisters to the staircase they'd taken, it wasn't the grand staircase he'd seen earlier in the morning, that would have been far too exposed, but rather this was a staircase to the home's basement, which - according to Miranda - was the fastest way to get to the backyard. John descended the stairs, and came to an archway that lead from their hallway to one of the mansion's many living rooms. The hairs on the back of John's neck were standing on end, he waited for several seconds, all senses reaching out, trying to discover what was making him so on edge.

_Wait…_ Something 'clicked' in John's mind, he slowly placed his left hand on the wall he was waiting behind. The wall was warm, and everything fell into place.

One thing that Ducard had drilled into their minds, was to never rest on cover, bullets and even Mass Accelerated Slugs tended to travel along straight surfaces, so if you were resting upon cover, it increased the chances of your getting shot, greatly. Another thing that Ducard had warmed them about, was that nothing - absolutely _nothing - _could overwhelm the natural diffusion of heat, be it through flames, or simple body heat; only an actively canceling cold force could negate the diffusion, but this house did _not_ have that, and what was more, the air conditioning wasn't on, so the walls should have been luke-warm at best. _This_ wall, this wall in particular, was warm enough to raise the SIGMA-Teen's suspicions, and it only took John a second to decide what that meant.

A man, obviously without special forces training, was waiting against the wall, on the other side of the arch. John would take no chances, this one would be eliminated. He raised his hand in a fist, silently telling Miranda to stay put, as he got to his feet. He inhaled and exhaled, calming his nerves. His gun went in its holster, but was loose enough that it wouldn't drag if he had to draw it fast, the noise would be _very_ counter productive, if he were to fire it indoors. Another inhale, he knew he would have to take this one out in hand-to-hand. The wall was warm, so the man obviously wasn't wearing armor, otherwise it wouldn't have been anywhere near as noticeably warm as it had been. That didn't mean he wasn't wearing a Shield Belt, though, so John needed a lot of force to hit him with.

He felt the biotic energy wrap itself around his fist, recalling to mind the words the ex-commando had drilled into his mind.

_"__Like your brain, your biotics are muscles! You work them right, they'll work for you. Don't work them enough, and they won't work for you! Work them too much, and they'll stop working for you!"_ She'd always screamed, forcing them to fight beyond exhaustion to make perfect the very technique John was about to perform.

All species had their biotics, there were Volus biotics, Turian biotics, Salarian, Drell, Hanar, Krogan, Batarian, and, of course, Asari biotics. John had even heard of a Vorcha biotic at one point. All species had no where near the biotic numbers of the Asari, of course, but they had enough that, eventually, species-exclusive Biotic Martial Arts had come to life. The Turians had their _Helanaa,_ which focused on quick, tactically placed, but debilitating blows, that had their relative mass increased by the biotics of their performer. Salarians had _Fumal, _which focused on keeping the enemy off balance, and away from them, so they could get back to their weaponry. Asari had hundreds, but the most commonly practiced was _Selai'Na-na._ It focused on the near limitless Asari potential for biotic stamina; _Selai'Na-na_ increased the relative mass of any of the limbs they would use to hit their opponents, for a split-second, just as their limb hit the opponent's body. So if they were to kick a person, the biotics wouldn't increase the mass until the last possible second, then they would flare violently, drastically increasing the mass - and, by proxy, the raw force - of the blow, and then shrinking back down to normal Asari biotic levels. The blows behind _Selai'Na-na_ were devastating, because each and every one used one hundred percent of what an Asari could do to themselves, biotically, and thus, meant that no other species could match its raw power.

Humans, however, had something else entirely. Whereas other species focused on covering their weaknesses and playing their strengths through Martial Arts, Human biotic users melded Human martial arts to suit their Biotics. Specifically, the SIGMA II's who had had _months_ to work amongst themselves to perfect it, used what they called _Vi-Contactus_, Latin for 'Force Contact'. At its core, SIGMA Biotic Arts threw away the common practices of other species' biotic users, who commonly tried to make themselves everymen on the battlefield, using Biotics to cover their weaknesses, and to bolster their strengths. _Vi-Contactus,_ simply played their strengths, the strengths of a Child Soldier, taught from toddler-hood how to fight and how to fight, and how to _win_. _Vi-Contactus _used the raw battle-instinct of a SIGMA II to its advantage, and the SIGMA II's body as its tool. The SIGMA Biotic Arts combined raw, debilitating, _brute force,_ with two simple mantras: If the enemy was bigger than you, keep it away, but if it was smaller or the same size as you, don't let go of it. A SIGMA II using _Vi-Contactus _had been able to utterly _dominate_ the Asari Matriarch who had been teaching them biotic skill and mastery. The bewildered Asari had, before they were to be taken back home to Sparta, asked them to simply allow her to see how _Vi-Contactus _worked, as her curiosity in the simplicity of the art, far outweighed her fear in the raw damage it could do. The SIGMAs had responded that _Vi-Contactus_ would be 'Human only', the same way the Commando Biotic Art, _Fela'Sans,_ was exclusive to the Regius.

A final breath in, and out, and John hurled around the corner. Sure enough, his instincts and cautious attitude paid off, because an armed Human was waiting for him. John hooked his hand onto the wall of the archway, and his forward momentum was turned to circular momentum as he whipped around the corner, and towards the guard. Before it had even registered to the man that yelling for help would be a good idea, John's biotically-charged palm had slammed into the man's throat, collapsing his wind-pipe. An instant passed and John's left fist came hurling through the air in a wide arc, the blue fire of his biotics casting a horrifyingly ominous glow on his surroundings. John's fist, with its speed, raw force, and drastically increased mass, slammed into the man's nose, before John's knee roared into his solar plexus. John gave the man another right hook, which whipped the dazed and confused guard around, and in an instant John's right arm had hooked around the man's neck, while his left latched onto the man's left arm with a steel grip; thirty seconds passed and the man finally stopped struggling. John wasn't stupid, though, he'd seen this act before, he'd _done _it before. Another forty five seconds to make sure the man wouldn't get up, and John set him down to bleed on the ground, he didn't bother checking for a heartbeat as he stole the man's pistol, his magazines, and stalked back around the corner, he knew the man was dead, and he didn't reflect on what was essentially his first Human kill.

_"__Stay quiet."_ John whispered almost inaudibly, _"__that confirms he knows."_

_"__But how could he have?"_ Miranda asked, taking the offered pistol and ammunition, _"__I've -"_

_"__We don't have time for that, now."_ John said, though he already had several theories, _"__we need to move. Cut the power and get into that lab."_ Miranda decided now wasn't the time to argue with the child soldier, and simple nodded before she guided John through the dark basement.

Their trek through the silent darkness was not without confused feelings from John. That guard had been the only one they'd met, from point A to point B, at the hatch to the outside. He knew the man _was_ a guard, he was armed and had a veteran look about him. Had he simply been at the wrong place, wrong time? Had he been placed there? John shook his head.

_Expect the worst, hope for the best._ Ducard had always told them.

Taking that to heart, John knew to expect that the door leading back to ground level, would have several dozen rifles pointed at it, ready to fire at a single twitch of the door.

_"__Hold."_ John ordered, _"__I'll open it."_

_"__Something wrong?"_

_"__Most likely."_

The door John approached was veiled by light. John looked for something, anything, he could peer through, but couldn't find it. With a light sigh, John withdrew his weapon with his right hand, and ever so slowly opened the door with his left. When the door knob clicked its final resistance, John pushed the door open, little by little, until the light slowly began spreading through the basement, sending the small veil and turning it into a cloak that spread through the basement as achingly slowly as John opened the door. After a few seconds he had a crack open, just enough so that he could look through to the outside with just one eye.

Through the crack in the door, he saw the Lawsons' enormous backyard, which was intermittently lit by dozens of lights, all stuck into the ground, the lighting fixtures looked not at all unlike enormous fireflies, stuck headfirst into the ground. John couldn't see any enemies, nor, at first glance, could he at all see where there could be an entrance to an underground lab.

John holstered his pistol, and raised his hand and gestured forward, as he moved the door forward just a fraction more. Miranda slinked out before he did, and he silently shut the door after he exited the mansion; if all went to plan, he realized, he would never be entering that mansion again.

Upon exiting, the silence and darkness of the mansion was replaced by the lowlight and white noise of the Earth. John was successfully able to resist every single urge to simple wait in the shadows and absorb the scene around him. The small circles of light created by the fixtures in the ground cast a golden glow on the green grass around them. The clear sky above them was filled with the stars of the galaxy that, for at least a century now, the Humans of Earth could now examine up close and personally. Instead of focusing upon all of this, John focused on his immediate surroundings, he saw no soldiers, could spy no tactical cloak-shimmers, and couldn't - to the best of his ability - hear any drones, machines, cameras, or anything of the sort, anywhere near here.

John saw Miranda walk up to a small machine, hooked into the outside of her house. From the looks of it, John assumed it was the primary generator for the home's Virtual Environment Creator, he immediately knew what she was planning, when the girl activated her Smart Watch and began interfacing with the machine. The VEC was the recent successor to the V-Home, the two were essentially child and parent, respectively, though the VEC was far more advanced, and came with a vastly more customizable and easily understandable interface. The main weakness of any Virtual Environment, John knew, was that it had to interface with every single part of the house, including power. Miranda knew this too, and she fulfilled John's prediction the second _everything_ around them, the house, the lights in the backyard, everything that drew power simply shut off.

"It will take an hour for the wireless generators and receivers to come back online." Miranda stated.

John got to his feet, "are you serious?"

Miranda blinked, "what?" She asked, looking to John.

"Mankind has had wireless generators since after World War Three, and even before then, we had _backup_ generators in case the primaries fail... And you think this house will be dark for an hour." He stated, not as a question, but as a fact; Miranda made to speak, but John cut her off. "Where to next?"

"Follow me… It's rather clever, how my father hid the lab." She explained, as the two walked at a brisk pace across the pitch black lawn.

John couldn't help but smile, they hadn't done much in the ways of stealth yet - that was for the N7 training, that was still years off - but their Marine training had covered basic survival and stealth skills. Rule number one: Darkness was your ally; Rule number two: Never, _ever_ rely upon it. John was embracing both rules as they walked through the enormous yard, made only bigger by the darkness of night. His eyes were wide, the darkness giving way to light as they adjusted to it, the cold air helped heighten his hearing as the bitter cool seemed to make the air still, and every little noise, from the smallest of crickets to the loudest of bullets, was made all the louder.

After walking across the dark green grass, they came to an area more closer to one of the wall's corners, than it was to the house. Within John's sight, was what looked like a smaller wall enclosure, which was filled with sand.

"It used to be my favorite play place, when I was younger." Miranda explained, a fondness in her tone. "What do you see?"

"A perfect place to lie in wait with a tactical cloak and a -"

"Anything else?" Miranda was only slightly surprised she hadn't seen that coming.

Silence for several moments, "a place in which I could hide from pursuers?" John looked at it closely, wishing Miranda would just get to the point; if Henry was awake, and suddenly the power that wrapped his rooms in holograms was cut, there was no doubt in the Child Soldier's mind that he would be investigating the problem as soon as he could navigate through his home, which, given the thirty nine seconds it took for them to traverse the enormous lawn, they most likely had only two more minutes, but John wouldn't hold out for such an optimistic time, so he decided it would take forty five seconds.

"I thought _you_ were the one who was supposed to see these things?" Miranda said light heartedly, as she activated her smart-watch, decreased its brightness, and began interacting with its holographic surface.

"I'm a Super _Soldier,_ Miranda." John said, "not a Super _Spy._ What am I supposed to be seeing here?"

"This." Miranda hit a button on her watch, and then a second passed before a large metal wall divided the two halves of the sand-pit. The walls then extended their tops to cover the pit entirely, before they lifted upwards, to reveal a hidden, metal staircase.

"Cheesy, I know…" Said Miranda, as the metal sections drove into the ground, allowing them entry into the underground passage, "but I suppose you won't know wh-" She was interrupted by John, who saw the shimmer long before she did.

John's gun was in his right hand, and his left was wrapped in biotic energy, which surged forth in a powerful violet Flare. The flare's detonation sent a brief flash through the yard, followed by a loud - but muffled - 'thump', and a shockwave, but it only took John the flash to jump into actions. Their attacker was revealed, he wore a standard Alliance Special Forces Tactical Cloak over his armor. The clear, hooded cloak's cybernetics had been utterly fried by John's flare, which left the thing useless as anything but a piece of clothing. Alliance SFTC's were a new invention, coming after the similarly named Tactical Cloaks from the Second Contact War. Ever since the Alliance Armed Forces had tried to fund armor/cloak combinations that would make the 'perfect' invisible warrior, they had since realized that the power requirements would simply make the armor far too bulky for the stealth ops it was designed for. The answer to this problem was the product of CJ Manufacturers' long months of research and development. This new tactical cloak was far more accurate to its name, it was a cloak that interfaced with the armor's energy shields, bending the light around the wearer, effectively turning him invisible, and did so in a way that diffused shadows as well, a technological innovation that _no_ other company bidding for the TC Patent could accomplish, before _or_ after the Second Contact War. The cloak consisted of a small chip hooked into the armor's shield generator. It took little more power to activate and sustain the cloak than it did to activate and sustain the energy shields, thus it was perfect for extended stealth missions.

Ever since their successful testing by N7 forces, during the Mercenary Wars, Alliance SFTC's had become a mainstay for Alliance Special Forces on stealth missions; they were most commonly seen in N7 and SIGMA Operations. Orbital Dropping Death Dealers had been shipped the cloaks, and could most definitely use them if they wished, but they had - ever since their near universal success in the Second Contact War - embraced their 'walking tanks' stereotype, and as such tended not to _need _or even _want_ the cloaks.

This man's cloak, as advertised and as designed, did well to cover the man's armor, so John couldn't tell if he was wearing any of the three types of Powered Infantry Assault Armor utilized by the Alliance Special Forces, if he was utilizing Alliance Standard Infantry armor, if he was using custom made armor, or if he was simple wearing the cloak. The soft metal 'clunk' the man's boot made as it hit the ground told him he was wearing armor, so John had to prepare for energy shields. John tackled the man and they tumbled inside the tunnel, they landed within with a 'clang' that sounded as loud as a Railgun blast, but John paid it no mind at this moment. With one swift, powerful blow, John slammed his biotic fist into the chest of his target, overloading the shields and thus shattering the cloak, bringing him into full view. The man wore Blue Suns armor, which John had been briefed extensively on: Blue Suns were the only mercenaries who posed any true threat to the Alliance Armed Forces, as they had been made around and sustained with solely Human technology. The SIGMA Teen placed his gun within the confines of the man's energy shield, stopping it from reforming, and pressed the barrel deep into the man's throat; before he spoke he heard the doors to the surface close, and knew Miranda had entered and sealed them from the outside.

"How many of you are there?" John demanded, quickly checking his surroundings, which were all lit with the sterile blue/white light of Simu-Sun light bulbs, this light proved to his advantage, because it would make it far easier to see other cloaked figures, of which, there were none. "Are any more of you cloaked?" John stared at the man's face, which was covered in a gas-mask, much more violent looking than the SIGMA's SCBA-looking helmet/visor combinations.

_"__Oh _fuck _off!"_ The man roared, in an accent that John couldn't properly identify, but was not at all unlike George's, and though his voice was no where near as deep as George's, it was certainly more gravelly.

The man made to reach for John's gun. John would admit, the deeply accented man moved quickly, but John acted with ingrained skill. He slammed his biotic fist into the man's face, which caused his helmeted head to slam onto, and then bounce off of, the metal ground beneath them.

_"__God damn!"_ The man shouted, now reaching for his helmeted head, "you fucking pack a punch, don't you?!"

_"__Stay quiet!"_ John ordered.

"The hell kind of twelve year old can use biotics like that?" The man asked, ignoring John and peering into his ear, "without an _amp,_ too! What the hell?"

"I said -" John dug the gun into the man's throat, constricting his windpipe. "_-stay… Quiet."_

_"__Jesus!"_ The accented man whisped, "fine… Fine… Damn job isn't worth being interrogated by a twelve year old…" The man looked away from John, at Miranda, then back to him. "Tell you what, I'll get up, and put my weapons on the ground. You, me, and the Boss' girl over there will have a nice chat, and I'll leave like I've never seen an armed twelve year old."

John waited for a moment, "give me assurance that you won't use your weapons to shoot her."

The man paused for a moment, as he wracked his mind looking for something to offer the kid. "BSA oh-one, deactivate energy shields and release helmet." He ordered his suit's onboard computers. A hiss and a silver-blue shimmer later, and his energy shields disappeared, and his helmet fell from his head. "There, clear shot to me head. Now _get off!"_

John complied, but he kept his finger on the trigger of the pistol he kept aimed at the man's exposed head. The man's face was ovular, with a close-cut head of hair. He had two dark green eyes, and a general look of having seen much war and death, and was hardened because of it. John got another look at the armor, now that the man was standing, and it only reinforced that the man was Blue Suns. John recalled much of the information he'd been given about the Blue Suns, they were a Human-made and led band of Mercenaries that was rapidly gaining power, rumor amongst the SIGMA I's was that they had enough power to take down either one of the 'Big Two' mercenary companies in Citadel Space, though not enough to take them both. What John noticed, though, as the man stripped himself of his weapons, was his rifle in particular, it had the iconic look of a rifle John _knew_ almost better than the Special Forces Rifles most commonly used by SIGMAs, and it was because of this innate knowledge that John immediately realized that the weapon on the ground was _not_ the civilian model.

"Is that -"

"My lovely Standard Infantry Rifle, yes it is, and I _don't_ want to know how _you_ know that." Said the mercenary, "I'll not be stripping of me vest, you can understand." He added, as he leaned against the wall behind him.

"Where on Earth did you get one of those?" John nudged his foot forward to kick the rifle and the pistol away, but the man roared loudly than he had before, which froze John and made the child soldier instantly whip his weapon back on target.

_"__Don't you _touch _Jessie, kid!"_ The man shouted, "that rifle's seen more blood than the Alliance Army has in its entire existence!"

"It's _not_ a Civilian model, and the Alliance is very thorough -"

"You obviously underestimate what the rebels steal and sell to the outer colonies. This one here, and I dated it, is at least three decades old. Found by some kid on Newson." Said the Mercenary, "and _this rifle specifically_, not hours after it had been dug up, killed about sixteen people, before I myself -"

"I don't care." John interrupted, "about your story. I want to know your name now." He stated, getting things back on track.

"Zaeed." The man grunted with a shrug, "you'll get the last name if you give me yours."

"John Shatner." John stated.

"Massani. Who the hell trained you, kid? I've never been hit with a biotic bomb like that before, and I fought _Asari_ mercenaries… Seriously pissed off Asari mercenaries, at that." He chuckled faintly.

"That is information you don't need to know." John growled, "now, how many other mercenaries are in this base?"

"I dunno, really… Last numbers I had rested at about eighty. I only got here a few days ago." Zaeed mentioned.

The Mercenary's last statement sent off alarm bells in John's head, but he ignored it for the time being. "How many others of you have tactical cloaks?"

The mercenary shrugged, "asking the wrong man there, mate. Like I said, I've only been here for a few days. I think I saw about a dozen cloaks, including mine, when I went in and got mine this morning."

"What does their equipment look like?"

"Alliance stuff, SIRs and SIPs, tough shields, but only a few people here have armor, the place isn't that big."

John nodded, "why are you giving all this information to me openly?" He asked.

"Because I don't kill kids." Zaeed stated, "I was told I'd be protecting this guddamned place from a squad of hardened Cat-Six mercs… Not a twelve year old and his girlfriend." He paused, "and I've seen what they're doing in there. It's horrible."

"What will you do when we continue on?"

"Put my weapons back on and pretend I was knocked out. I know the procedure." The mercenary said.

John nodded. Every single one of his instincts were screaming at him to simply shoot this man and be done with it, but he didn't want to rack up a body count, if he didn't have to. Zaeed did as he said he would do, and after doing so simply lied down in the corner of the blank, decoration-less room they were in, and settled in for a nap.

"That was… Interesting." Miranda deadpanned, after they left the room and entered a long, steep stairwell.

"We lost time." Was what John responded with, "do you know where we're going?"

"If we can get some tactical cloaks, we could -"

"That will take too much time." John urged, "where are they keeping Oriana?" He demanded.

"The rear of the base."

"Then we head there." John stated, nodding to the steel door behind them.

Miranda walked forward and hacked through the door's systems. Once she got the door opened, the two quickly entered the base. Its long, steel corridors were lit with pale blue/white light. On both sides of these corridors were doors that probably led to the rooms of those who worked here. The lab itself was silent, if not for the distant conversations of the scientists going to their rooms for the night, and the muffled rumble of the generators providing the lab with its power.

Their trek through the lab - led by John - was halted at several points by security cameras, security workers and scientists. The scientists all wore non-descript, uniform clothing, black slacks and white T-Shirts, with pockets on their chests. The security workers, much like Zaeed had advertised, were all in baggy clothing, save for the few John had seen so far, who wore Blue Suns armor. Several times did the two have to freeze, else they risked being caught by the guards, who were becoming more frequent the further they went.

Five minutes passed by in complete silence, twice they had descended a stairwell - on instruction from Miranda - before the unthinkable happened. By pure happenstance, the two turned a corner, to literally come headfirst with a Blue Suns mercenary. All three of them, John included, froze out of the simple shock of running into each other. Miranda had, for a moment, tried to think up a story as to why they were down here, but the Blue Sun knew his orders, if they weren't a mercenary, and if they weren't a scientist, they weren't supposed to be here. John snapped out of it as he saw the Blue Suns begin to shift his body to reach for his rifle, John leapt into action the second the Suns' hand clasped around the butt of his rifle. John and the Blue Suns slammed onto the floor, and, after making a split-second decision, John knew he wouldn't have time enough to choke the man, or break his neck, so he stuck the barrel of his pistol onto the throat of the mercenary, and fired twice. The first bullet soared through meat, the second one struck bone, severing his neck and killing the man.

_"__Move, move!"_ John ordered, abandoning pretense and getting to his feet.


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

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><p><em>They recognized that in man they had an enemy who might prove formidable. There were all these marvels, like the distance pictures, there were the great cities at the height of their glory and power. And there were other things, too. Men had already begun to build ships that would take them across the emptiness. They had nothing like the ships of the Masters, but they had started and were learning fast. And they had weapons. One of these, from what he said, was of the nature of the iron eggs Beanpole had found in the Tunnel below the great-city; but as much more powerful as a bull compared to an ant. With one of these giant eggs, the Master told me, an area of land many miles in circumference could be scorched and blasted—one of the great-cities themselves completely obliterated. <em>

— _**The City of Gold and Lead**_

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><p><em><strong>April 3<strong>__**rd**__**, 2216**_

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><p>Sergeant Bill Sampson had, of course, been given training on nuclear weapons. Orbital Dropping Death Dealers were generally considered to be the only troops that would actually run into a post-nuclear battlefield - and, though few actually knew this, they would be correct in assuming so - and as such, they got training on the effects of the world's best, most silent killer: Radiation. Nuclear radiation killed as horribly as it did slowly, and nothing could help someone, once they began dying from it, all that could be done was to make them comfortable.<p>

Temporarily, Sampson saw, as he raised himself to his side, and looked around the hospital the Alliance had erected, the War around them had been all but forgotten, things had calmed down, no one was trying to kill each other, not _here,_ at least. He knew, of course, that the Armed Forces was twice as busy, conquering the rest of the planet and shepherding the slaves to safety, but here, in the outer perimeter of the nuclear detonation, there were no battles being fought, however temporarily that would last. Sampson saw, all around him, Humans, Quarians, and Batarians - both soldier and slave - all being treated as best they could for radiation poisoning.

All around him were beds, hastily thrown together mattresses and cushions, all crowding the tent they were in, with only enough room between them for the necessary technology, and so the doctors and medics could maneuver in between the beds. Sampson himself - suffering from minor poisoning, which, according to the doctors, was completely treatable, given a month's bed rest and a regular dosage of a medicine he hadn't caught the name of - was seated on a slightly more comfortable hospital bed, but that was comparing them to the beds in the Navy, which felt about as comfortable as squishy boulders. Next to him he saw a Quarian Marine, who had an even more minor case of poisoning than Sampson did; Quarian enviro-suits weren't lead-lined like the Radiation Suits Humans used, but they certainly helped keep the Quarian soldiers from being outright killed by the fallout. Luckily for Quarians, it was mandatory to get a dose of QIS 612 if they planned on joining the armed forces, so the EMP-Hardened nanomachines were constantly hard at work keeping their naturally weak immune systems, up and running, and combating the radiation sickness. Had they not had these artificial immune systems, the surviving Quarian Marines may very well have all died within hours of the attack.

Sampson looked past the sleeping Quarian, and saw, way on the other end of the lengthy tent, the dividing flaps that separated the Humans, Quarians, and Former-Slaves, and the Hegemony Forces themselves. They were the ones resisting Human treatment, and they were the reason why Alliance Marines - their armor environmentally sealed, and their helmets replaced with gas masks - were guarding the doctors and medics, ready to subdue anyone at a moment's notice.

Seeing the Hegemony Soldiers resisting the Alliance Medics so fervently triggered something in the veteran OD3's mind, simply put, Sampson had no idea how the Alliance would respond to this attack. His race's 'eye for an eye' mantra only really worked because it applied to Alliance Territory, this was a Batarian world, the main casualties that had resulted from the bomb were Batarian forces, slaves, and civilians, so Sampson had no honest idea what they would do because of this. Responding Nukes for Nukes would only lose the Alliance a lot of credibility, seeing as how they would be slaughtering the slaves they were coming to save, but not responding would show the Galaxy that the Alliance had a weakness, when it came to its word: If they were put into a position where an eye for an eye would go against their word, they would go for their word first, and vengeance second. In other words, failing everything else, the Alliance would simply throw bodies at this problem, seeing as how responding with a Nuclear Weapon would destroy some of their credibility; Sampson could almost feel the bullets flying through the air already, and wondered how long it would be before he leaped onto Khar'Shan.

Sampson's thoughts were interrupted by a quick brush of wind, and a loud gasp. The voice - while muffled and slightly synthesized by the radiation suit its owner wore - was one that filled Sampson with feelings of warmth, glee, sadness, and fear all at the same time.

_"__Dad!"_ Sampson heard his daughter shout.

With some effort, Sampson flopped back onto his back, and looked to his left, he saw his first - and only - born waddle up to him, obviously annoyed at the thick suit she had to wear to keep her safe from any sort of residual radiation, or some sort of sickness the contaminated may have gotten. He couldn't see his daughter's auburn hair, but assumed that it had been pulled back into some kind of bun, or perhaps a hair-net. Her dark brown eyes - that and her dark skin color, both traits of her mother - were filled to the brim with concern, and more so with tears ready to spill, all directed at her father. Jillian Sampson fell to her knees next to her Father, she took his hand in hers as another figure in a bio-hazard suit entered, this one Asari in species, and from what he could see of her covered face, absolutely _befuddled_ in appearance. The Asari held the appearance of someone who hadn't seen color their entire life, and had suddenly had the entire rainbow injected into their eyes, the simple confusion in her eyes told Sampson all he needed to know about her, she was a slave, and if he had to guess, had been a slave for a _very _long time. The only questions he wanted to ask – where Jillian had picked her up and why in the name of everything that spawned from Earth she hadn't _left the planet –_ were stolen from him when his daughter spoke, squeezing his stiff hand tightly as she did.

"Jesus, Dad!" Said Jillian, as she looked at Bill's sorry state. He couldn't blame her, the shockwave had fractured many of his ribs, he'd gotten several gunshots he hadn't even remembered, and his right arm had a hairline fracture that had no doubt come from the several direct punches to the Batarian's thick skull. It was a common misconception that OD3's got light bio-chemical augmentations to help survive their falls, more to the truth, it was their power armor that let them do many of the feats they had become legendary for, though skill did factor into it, at the end of the day they were still Humans, with all the weaknesses and frailties that came with the genes. "I know you're protective… But did you have to nuke the poor bastards?" She and he couldn't help a smile, being raised around the military her entire life, Jillian had quickly picked up on the satanic sense of Humor the Human Armies were infamously known for.

"Oh, you know me…" Said the smiling, wounded veteran, as he lost himself in his daughter's beautiful eyes. "Gonna return anything they do to my daughter… A million fold oughta do it." He cracked a wide grin, the skin and muscles on his face straining a bit to make it work.

"Well, it's appreciated… But did you have to try and _survive _it? You're tough and all… But still…" She looked at him, her face smiling but her eyes frowning in concern.

Bill shrugged as well as he could, given he was still in the hospital bed and many parts of him were restrained by body-casts, "I'll have you know, girly, that nuke wasn't ours." He said, going serious, "I've no clue where it came from, but the damn thing nearly killed me. Heat wave fried a bunch of my armor's more fine motors, I'll be out of the action for a few weeks at least, as they ship in new Suits." As his daughter nodded, Bill couldn't help but notice the Asari who was still watching him intently. "So... Who's the friend?" He asked, nodding his head to the blue-skinned alien neuter, "and why the _hell_ aren't you two offworld yet?!"

"Oh, _oh!"_ Jillian seemed a little flustered, as she got to her feet, and made a gesture to the Asari. "Dad, this is Saira Nel. She's a Clanless Asari, who's been here for…" She paused, and after a reassuring nod from the Asari, "well, a real long time." She paused, "and... Well, we were going to make it out of the transports a few hours ago but then the nukes fell, the Alliance froze all air and space traffic for twenty four hours, so we got shipped here for the better conditions."

Bill chuckled, "my ass, better conditions." He grunted, before he looked to the Asari, "you kept my little girl safe, did you?" He asked her, "showed her the ropes, made sure the Bastards didn't hurt her?" He spoke firmly, unwittingly snapping the Asari back into her submissive attitude and sapping her of the curiosity that had slowly been bubbling to the surface ever since it had sunk in that they were on the run for freedom.

Saira nodded quickly, "yes, master." She stammered quickly, lowering her head and bringing her arms behind her, surprising the Suicide Leaper. "I instructed the newcomer on the ways of the house and made sure she didn't make too many grievances against the family." She gulped, though through the suit Sampson didn't see it. "I hope I haven't offended."

Sampson stared at the Asari, eyes wide and unblinking and his characteristic scowl slackened a bit out of shock. He wrenched his hand from his daughter's grip and rubbed his stubble, feeling the hairs on his chin rub up against his hand as he worked out how to properly respond to this. Truth be told, the Dealer had seen _many_ things during his career in the military, he'd seen dead people, blown apart bodies, eviscerated organs, he'd even seen Rebels torching schools filled with children, but he had more or less been prepared to respond to all of this, he'd known how to react to all of it, mind-and-body _broken_ slaves, however, was something he'd never expected to encounter or prepare for. In hindsight, given the immensity of the galaxy, he knew he should have at least considered the possibility, but he never had, and thus, he had to actually think before he responded to this.

Eventually, he made the decision that he had to approach this woman as he would a young child. "Little lady, I don't know what the Hegemony has put you through, or for how long, but right now, you are not a slave, so _please_ don't talk to me like that." He said bluntly, "I'm just a Spec-Ops grunt, not even an Officer." He said, sinking a bit deeper into his bed, though still seated somewhat upright.

Saira blinked, still not keeping eye contact with the Dealer as she tried to wrap her head around his words, eventually responding automatically, "yes, master."

_Holy Christ, these guys did a number on her. _Thought Sampson, as he kept his gaze with the former slave, before looking back to his daughter, silently asking if he should do something else, to which she shook her head.

"Alrighty then, Girly, you might want to head out, now." Said the Sergeant, "much as I like talkin' to you, the Officers are going to be coming through here and I _don't_ want you to miss the next transport." He said, determinedly. " 'sides, there's still a war going on, however the hell long it's still going on."

* * *

><p><em>"<em>_Can you see them?"_

_"__I can count eighty nine hostiles within my line of sight." _

_"__Hunter Zero Two confirms eighty nine hostiles." _

_"__Did they leave our satellites alone? Can we use those?"_

_"__No. They were very thorough in their pre-invasion tactics. EMP Spires, Anti-satellite strikes… I heard they even took out the public Hunter bases." _

_"__Obviously Intelligence is doing something right if they hit the public bases and not the real ones." _

_"__Quiet." _The deep, baritone voices were silenced by the deepest of them all. _"__Spire."_

Looking through the scope of his sniper rifle, Hunter Zero-Two looked at the camp the Humans had made. The nuclear weapon they had dropped upon the city had only been a few dozen kilometers from their nearest EMP Spire, which was the primary reason Siler's Civilian Corps was being so ineffective, because they had to rely upon deactivated, fried weaponry to fight the Humans and their _damned_ chemical-reaction weapons, which weren't even mildly annoyed by EMP waves. The spire was an enormous object, extending at least seventy meters into the sky. The Siler Protection Forces - the Hegemony's Military Arm of the colony - had attempted to drop missiles down upon it, but it had protection.

Humans and their affinity for energy shields. The Human-Turian War had shown the Galaxy that the Humans were very creative with their war-tech, the Energy Shields revolutionized the way the Council had thought of protective shielding, but the Council had not the energy sources the Humans had at their disposal. The result of Council experimentations into Human Shielding tech was what Humans called 'Onion Shields', essentially the Council had energy shields for their warships, that were layered on top of their kinetic barriers, resulting in a shield that nullified the Humans' pesky Antimatter Weaponry, and helped to slightly reinforce the ships' main barriers. But the Humans still knew the technology, they had energy shields in all shapes and sizes, shields small enough for their infantry, and big enough for their starships, and everything in between. They were _strong_, too. Whereas the Council Energy Shields were more like shooting into paper, Human Energy Shields were like shooting into a six and a half inch thick stone wall.

In order to counteract the 'all protecting' Human shields, the Council - and all species utilizing Kinetic Barriers - had to severely up the sensitivity to their Kinetic Barriers. Whereas, during the Human-Turian war, they were only sensitive to objects moving at certain speeds, only obtainable by Element Zero Charging, now they were _far_ more sensitive, to much slower objects. During the Human-Turian war, the Kinetic Barriers had been completely circumvented by Human Bullets, the bullets had simply moved too slow for the barriers to detect them. Now though, with the far more sensitive barriers, Human bullets were like any other slug, they were deflected. The only advantage Human bullets had now was their surface area, and their stopping power, both of which, were in abundance.

Right now, the Batarian Hunters were staring at the Human-made EMP Spire, which was being protected by Human shielding tech. The Human Shields were so powerful, that the Hunters had to assume the Humans were using 'Hardened Shields', essentially meaning that the Humans had layered dozens of shields on top of each other, 'thickening' them, and making the barriers practically indestructible. This was technology that, aside from their command posts and important battlefield locations, only their SIGMA Operatives had access to. The Hunters knew that they could have a sustained assault on the Spire for hours, and they would only take out half of the shields that were wrapped around it, so they had to infiltrate the base and destroy the generators powering the shields, then take out the spire itself with a combination missile/shaped explosives strike. Others would call it simply suicidal, but that was where the Batarian Hunters came into play.

Whereas other Hegemony Forces - the Planetary and Void Forces - simply relied upon numbers and brutal weaponry, the Batarian Hunters relied upon stealth, skill, _and_ brutal weaponry. The Hunters were, essentially, the only Special Forces the Hegemony had to offer, and all of their colonies had a detachment of Hunters. Hunters were an all-around special forces group, they could destroy enemy encampments without being seen, and rush straight through enemy offensive/defensive lines to make breaks in their cover. Hunters were legendary amongst the Hegemony Forces, not just for their skill, but for their reputation. Humans had their SIGMAs, their 'unbeatable warriors', and the Batarians had their Hunters; they weren't augmented like the Human forces, but they were trained in hellish ways to make them nigh-unbeatable.

This operation here, would prove to be the Hunters' most largest operation since they had worked alongside the Turian BSF, or Beyond Special Forces, during the Vorcha wars. All around the planet, Hunters were positioning themselves around the EMP Spires, the Planetary Leader had decided that the way to win his colony back would be to bring the power back under Batarian hands, and the way to do that was to destroy all the Human Electro Magnetic Pulse Spires, so he'd called in the Hunters, _every one_ the colony had to offer. It had taken them days - all but one of the days the war had been going on - but now they were all ready, and the mission was underway.

_"__The spire is in the center of their camp."_ Reported a Hunter, _"__I see at least ten guards patrolling it." _

_"__The power station is near the western side of their camp, six guards, in N7 armor." _

_"__Most likely they've got a carrier waiting in atmosphere, ready to drop their Death Dealers." _

_"__Power sources indicate gunships are not a kilometer away, waiting to be called in. Assume fighter-craft and bombers are ready too." _

_"__Be ready to move in on my mark. Three… Two… O -" _Hunter Zero-Zero was interrupted by the voice of Zero-Four.

_"__All freeze. Reference point Herly Capitol Tower."_ Zero-Four said quickly.

_"__What do you see?"_

_"__Hold…"_ A pause for several seconds, _"__there it is again."_

_"__I saw it too._" Said Zero-two, as he stared down the scope of his suppressed rifle. Far behind the Human camp was the city, and the city's tallest standing building was its Capitol Tower, which had had its uppermost quarter torn off by a Human air-strike; the Hunters knew not what weapons the Humans had used to do so, but the words 'Hyper-implosive' did make the radio several times. What the Hunters had seen were the telltale glints of Sniper Rifle scopes, obviously their wielders were long-range reconnaissance troops. Zero-Two shook his head, it wasn't enough that the Humans had literally cleared out his _home_ city in a matter of hours, but now they were using the city's corpse to make sniper's nests and further attacks on any retaliatory Hegemony strikes.

_"__Sniper's glint." _Reported Zero-Three, as Zero-Two switched off the safety on his rifle.

_"__What do we do?" _Asked Zero-Five.

_"__Zero-Two, do you have a shot?"_

_"__Sun's behind us."_ Said Zero Two, as he put his scope to its maximum, 20-times zoom. He could just see the Human soldiers, they too had N7 armor, and behind them he could see what looked like a small camp, there were two tents, a cooler, and other such Human necessities, it wasn't just a Sniper's Nest, it was a Sniper's _home._ This suggested to the Hunter that the two he saw, the spotter and the shooter, weren't the only two there. _"__No glint on our end."_ He said, _"__switching to Thermal."_

_"__Zero two, you seeing what I'm seeing?"_ Asked Zero Three, as he too switched to thermal view.

_"__Four thermal signatures. Two outside, sniper/spotter, two inside… Replacements?"_ Zero-Two reported.

_"__Can you kill them?"_ Asked Zero-Zero.

_"__My Sniper has to cool down after three shots. It'd damage the heat sink if I fired four, but it's doable, if I remove the heat-safety."_

_"__Do it."_

_"__Removing Heat-safety."_ Zero-Two looked away from his scope and looked at the side of his rifle. It was a long weapon, about two and a half times the length of his arm. It fired anti-material rounds, capable of punching through infantry armor with ease, and light vehicle armor; another advantage Human armor had was that it was designed around their weapons, meaning they were designed to take a lot of punishment. Council armor was designed around Mass Accelerated Rounds, they deflected kinetic energy, dispersed it outwards, and then protected against the round itself, whereas Human armor was designed to deflect it all, and take the hit. Human armor was thick, thick enough that the only way to get a sure-fired hit on a Human, first shot, would be to load armor piercing mods, the problem with that was that he couldn't load the disruptor rounds that would kill their shields faster.

To counter this, Zero-Two loaded explosive mods onto his rifle. The shields would deflect the explosion, but the slug would overwhelm them and pass through their armor. Zero Two looked at the blue button in his rifle, 'blue for cool', was the rule amongst MA Weapon holders, 'red for hot', and then there was 'black for emergencies', which essentially turned off the safeties that forced the weapon to stop firing so it could cool down. He knew he ran the risk of turning the heat sink into slag, and destroying the weapon, but emergency ejectors and spare sinks were what helped circumvent this.

Zero-Two looked through his scope, after making the necessary changes to his weapon. The Two Humans were still there, scanning their sector. He inhaled deeply, held it for a second, and exhaled, at the bottom of his exhale, he pulled the trigger twice. Two slugs silently soared through the air, and just as they slammed into the two Humans and exploded, Zero-Two pulled the trigger twice more, his HUD blaring at him that his weapon was dangerously overheated. The first two rounds slammed into their targets and exploded, the Humans' heads now piles of evisor meat. The second two soared past the deceased Humans and ripped into the tents behind them, they too exploded, and killed their targets.

Quick as a flash, Zero-Two, Zero-Three, and the other five Hunters got to their feet. Zero-Two switched his white-hot Heat Sink and slammed the cool silver one into place, as he moved down the steep hill, towards the Human encampment. His cloak bent the light around him, keeping him invisible as he fiddled with the weapon's machinery, and got the magazine charged and ready for use. His HUD Reported that it would take thirty Hegemony Standard seconds for the weapon to be fully cooled, so he collapsed the weapon and pulled out his pistol, a bulky, albeit suppressed weapon of lethal power. It was held tightly, professionally in his hands as he and his squad-mate snuck through the waist-high grass surrounding the city, and subsequently the Human encampment. The sun was low in the sky behind them, quickly descending into the night the Hunters preferred to operate in.

Zero-Two's HUD showed him the location of his similarly cloaked seven squad mates. The Hunter couldn't understand exactly why the Humans had gone for an actual _cloak,_ for their stealth-cloaks, it seemed very wasteful to him, but in the end it didn't really matter, he stalked through the grass.

_"__It doesn't look like they heard the explosions."_ Came Zero-Six.

_"__Of course they didn't, the city is far behind them, and I myself can hear the sounds of distant battle... Likely they'll think it was either that, or undetonated ordinance."_ Zero-Four brashly remarked. _"Hell, some shells from the Krogan Rebellion still -"_

_"That is irrelevant, Zero-Four." _Came Zero-One.

_"__Searchlights, get down below the grass."_ Said Zero-Zero, as he and the other seven crouched low below the gray-brown grass. Their movements did disturb the grass around them, but the searchlights seemed not to notice.

Zero-Two couldn't help but think _something_ was wrong, tactically, surrounding your base camp - and the object that is securing your dominance on the planet - with waist-high grass, that could be easily crept through, made absolutely no sense. The Humans had to be up to something, but their mini-drone reconnaissance had brought up no motion sensors, minefields, or any sort of defenses aside from the perimeter of the camp.

_Perhaps they simply overlooked it?_ Thought Zero-Two, as they continued to silently creep through the grass.

After two minutes passed, they reached the threshold of the Human camp. They had to wait five minutes before a break in the patrol allowed them all to enter. They gave a quick update with the other few dozen other Hunter Squads, who were all around the planet executing the same mission. Everything was good, so Hunter Squad Zero broke up, three of them moving for the Spire's generators, the final five moving for the Spire itself.

Zero-Two didn't like his surroundings. The planet around them was silent, save for the distant sounds of the raging war, however this camp sounded like the city it rested outside of, _should_ have sounded, it almost drowned out the distant reports of gunfire and explosions. Zero-Two heard the light-hearted chatter of the Human and Quarian soldiers in their respective tents, he heard laughter and banter, he heard rumors being tossed about, and stories being told. Zero-Two didn't like Humans, not at all, they fought savagely, and yet outside of battle they totally betrayed the image of the all-defeating warriors they portrayed themselves as, it was so inconsistent it made his stomach hurt. At least the Quarians were a bit more predictable, Zero-Two himself had tortured a few of them before, all he had to do was bring in a little mud and put his knife to their suit and they would start spilling all of their secrets.

_"__Freeze."_ Zero-Zero ordered, halting himself and his squad mates.

An instant later a large group of Humans in their 'Military Casual' fatigues passed by them, Zero-Two could hear what they were talking about.

"I swear, man, you seen those SIGMA Guys?" Asked one of the Humans, as the group - much to the invisible Hunters' annoyance - paused to hear his story, "I _swear _I saw one or two of 'em without their helmets... Jesus, the looks on their faces, they look like demons man, I swear."

"Demons? Seriously? They're Human like the rest of us, Jack."

"Yeah, but what about those ones following that guy in the suit? I saw _one_ of those guys doing maintenance on _his_ helmet, his skin was pulled tight against his skull and he looked like he hadn't eaten in weeks... and hell, his buddies looked like they'd just as soon kill _me_ as they would kill a Batarian! They look damn _scary_! Especially the ones who've seen combat, those torched and scratched armor plates, shredded skin suits, with the holes and the tears on 'em? God damn, I nearly pissed myself."

"You actually _saw_ that guy in the suit?"

_"__This is getting boring."_ Zero-Zero whispered, still immobile.

"Yeah, man. His skin was so pale he looked sickly, and his dark green eyes made me think he knew what I was _thinking!"_

"No way."

"But he had SIGMA bodyguards! He's got to be in AI, how the hell else would he be here?"

"Why would he be here, though? What reason would there possibly be to -" An explosion, close and _loud,_ silenced the Humans and startled the Batarians.

_"__Zero-Four, what the hell are you thinking?"_ Demanded Zero-Zero.

_"__Gas attack!"_ Shouted Zero-Four, over the sound of Human and Quarian shouts of fear. _"__Gods, it's everywhere!"_ He shouted, as the base's alarm began blaring loudly, and the Humans began tearing out of their tents, only to be stopped cold by a sight the second Hunter team noticed a moment later.

Thick, dark green smoke was pouring through the base in columns, as an Alliance Shuttle soared overhead, its bay-door opened, which revealed a sight Zero-Two would never forget. There was one Human, standing in between five SIGMA Operatives, the Human was wearing a gas-mask, but it didn't mask his dark green, almost evil eyes. His skin was a pale white, and his hair was jet black, he wore a dark grey suit, and he looked at his dying brethren with an air of disinterest.

Chaos quickly followed the chemicals, as the Hunters sprinted through the Base, determined to complete their mission, using the attack to their advantage. The Humans were sprinting about, some running from the smoke, some - with masks - running into it to grab their friends. It only took seconds for those exposed to the Cloud to die in agony, as it looked like the blood from their bodies was leaking from every available orifice, and when there were none left, it seeped through their very skin. Even the Quarians seemed to be affected by the cloud, though in a different way. They quickly fell to the ground, violently vomiting in their masks, forcing them to rip the protective face pieces off, or risk choking on their own vomit. The result was exposing them to the cloud, which seemed to simply cut off their air supply, as they began choking on some unseen substance. The Hunters - fighting off panic - knew that the only way to get out of here, and to put the Humans out of their misery, would be to complete their mission.

_"__All Hunter teams, this is Hunter Squad Zero, we need an update now!"_ Zero-Zero roared.

_"__Hunter Squad Zero, all squads report ready, on your go we will launch the strike." _Came the voice of the Planetary Leader.

_"__I need a change of munitions, you need to firebomb this whole area! Nuke it if you can, someone unleashed a chemical attack and its spreading alarmingly fast!"_ It was true, the cloud had already spread halfway through the camp, the Hunters found themselves within the cloud, but thankfully their suits protected them.

_"__Repeat yourself Hunter… Chemical attack?" _

_"__Yes!"_ Roared Zero-Zero, as they made it to the Spire, to find it thankfully void of protectors.

_"__Contact!"_ Zero-Two heard, before he felt bullets slam into his barriers. _"__SIGMA!"_ He heard too, Zero-Two dived for cover, just shy of the spire.

He looked around the vehicle he was using for cover, but the smoke was so thick he couldn't see a few inches in front of his face, the only indication he had that he was being attacks was the trails the Human Bullets were leaving in the smoke. He and the other Hunters began firing blindly in the direction the bullets were coming from. They had to take extra care not to allow their shields to fail and their armor be breeched, otherwise they would be exposed to the ever-expanding cloud.

_"__Zero-Zero, the generators have been destroyed!"_ Zero-Two heard over the radio. An instant later, a loud explosion could be heard, and the piercing light behind them faded out of existence.

_"__Hammer down!"_ Shouted Zero-Zero, before a wall of bullets - deafeningly piercing the air and tearing through the cloud - broke through his barriers and shredded his armor, exposing him to the unforgiving cloud.

Zero-Two screamed in fear and got back into cover. His motion tracker must have been malfunctioning, because it showed him _no_ enemies, when there were obviously thousands shooting at him. He looked to the sky, his last vision was of the shuttle's bay-door closing and then the shuttle rocketing away, before the cloud choked out the sky itself.

* * *

><p>"Sir, permission to activate?" Asked the Operative standing next to the gray-suited man.<p>

There was utter silence, as the Man stared at the expanding cloud. The Shuttle had rocketed away towards the nearest city's outer limits, he could clearly see the cloud from here, as it expanded to its pre-programmed shape, an armed-spiral much like the Milky Way. It was still expanding, in all directions.

"Batarian Fire Bombs are on their way, sir… They'll destroy the machine if we do not act."

More silence, the Man removed his gas mask and continued to look at the Cloud's progress, his expressionless face showed an extreme lack of interest. His armored companions stayed silent for a moment longer, and were about to speak again before he spoke clearly, his deep voice cutting through the silence.

"Do it." And with his order, the Operative next to him pressed the button on his detonator.

At the Human camp, an orb of blue-gray, bright light expanded from its center. The orb absorbed everything in its path, expanding to a spherical shape twice the size of the Cloud. For two seconds it expanded, for another second it waited, before it disappeared anticlimactically. Nothing was there, in its wake. The ground, the air, the people, everything that had been enveloped by the orb had simply disappeared.

"Reports coming in from Destination Alpha, they're all there, perfectly preserved." Said the operative, as, in the distance, the bright flares of enormous rockets could be seen, getting larger as they approached.

"Project Everett has begun." Said The Man, as he stared at the aftermath of his experiment. "Detonate the Bomb. I don't want Destination Siler to be there if McGraw ever finishes his Traveler Program." A pause, "take us to Destination Omni, I have to wait for the High Chancellor to contact me, before I can begin Test Two… Have the data on the Ancients' satellite grid waiting for me when I get there." He ordered, a quick recognition phrase from his guardians, and then an Entry Point opened in front of the shuttle; the shuttle shot forth like a bullet, into the dark green portal, before the Entry Point disappeared, leaving no trace of them having ever been there.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Hey folks! _

_Sorry for the delay, work has slowed down between me and my Beta, and when coupled with school and other IRL issues, TSW's production has slowed down considerably. _

_Not much to say here, though I do have a poll I'd like you all to vote in! You can find more details on my profile. _

_'Till next time!_

_-PFB_


	14. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

* * *

><p>"<em>Nothing is scarier than a 12-year-old with a Kalashnikov."<em>

— _**Nightcrawler, X-Men**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>April 3<strong>__**rd**__**, 2216**_

* * *

><p>John 'Shatner' S2-15, and Miranda Lawson, were running. They ran as fast as they could, John had told Miranda - just before alarms began blaring - that they had to distance themselves from the corpse as fast as they could, and on his instructions, they sprinted off, moving as quickly and quietly. John had no time and no desire to focus on his growing list of <em>Human<em> kills, he simply moved on, determined to complete the mission and get Miranda and her 'sister' out safely. According to Miranda, they were nearing the main lab, in which her biological twin sister, 'Oriana', lay.

The SIGMA Teen and the Human Girl had met little resistance on their way to the lab, a fact of which Miranda reveled in, but John feared. To him, that meant that the enemies were either as dumb as they seemed to be, which was a fact that Commander Ducard had told every SIGMA to _never_ even consider as an option, or they were setting something up, which in and of itself was an almost unspeakably _bad _omen. Zaeed had told him there were around eighty mercenaries in this facility, and John had only killed six. There was every possibility that Zaeed had been lying to him, but John knew how to read Human faces, and Zaeed hadn't been lying. That meant that, unless there were dozens of mercenaries in the lab, their flight from the facility would be utterly _packed_ with resistance. John quickly surmised he would need a better weapon and soon. The SIGMA Teen was jarred from his thoughts when they finally arrived at their destination, and before John could stop her, Miranda slammed through the door and into the lab, and inside were a dozen mercenaries, all armed, and a half dozen scientists, all surrounding a large series of complex machinery. One scientist in particular looked up when the two armed Teenagers, and was the first to shout.

_"__Stop them! They'll ruin the experiment!"_ He roared, before the twelve mercenaries' heads shot up, looked at John and Miranda, and raised their rifles.

John didn't hesitate. He didn't focus on how he would have handled this differently had he had his way, he didn't curse Miranda for not thinking her actions through, he focused instead on the immediate threat to life and limb, deigning to adapt to the situation at hand; as his instincts went into overdrive he had a split-second to survey the room, and look for cover that he and the other teen could hide behind, instantly he discovered a small, stainless steel table, filled with lab reports, tablets, and data-pads. Time sped back up just after he grabbed Miranda by the back of her shirt and hurled her towards towards the table; not a second after her momentum would ensure she would cover the distance, John leapt forward, unleashing a torrent of biotics as he did, the first volley was to flip the table, the second to stun the mercenaries. John slammed into the ground and slid a few inches, his shoulder hitting the table just as his legs scrambled to bring him into a crouching position. Miranda was in cover, and the look of barely contained panic on her face conveyed to the child soldier everything he needed to know: She wasn't ready for this kind of situation. Paralyzing paint matches against super soldiers were one thing, she knew she wouldn't be killing them, she knew she wouldn't be dying, what's more: she knew she wouldn't even _win_ against them, but here? One well-placed bullet from her gun would utterly _end_ a man's life, and one well placed bullet from their guns would end hers, and the look on her face told John - who had been prepared his entire life for a situation like this - that she simply wasn't ready. She was teetering on the breaking point, and John knew he had scant seconds before she _did_ break.

John had to take her mind off panic, he had to give her something to do, quickly. He needed to give her a job that he himself could siphon away so he could focus on ending more lives, on pulling the trigger and waiting for the nearly inaudible _smacking_ noise that came with a bullet hitting a body and tearing through it. He went over his skills, considering the ones he couldn't at all give off to her and the ones he could afford to. He was the better marksman, he could take the cap off of a glass bottle, with a pistol held in his weaker hand, at fifty meters. He was the better biotic, he could - and _did - _overwhelm their ex-Commando trainer in a biotic match-up. He was the better tactician, he could make out his enemies weaknesses and his friends strengths only moments after meeting them. _These_ enemies were firing at the table and over it, trying to suppress them, but they were slow, bulky in their movements, like a car that hadn't even been turned on in months, weeks - perhaps even months, though he cared not - of guarding a quiet lab in which nothing happened forced this upon them. Miranda, on the other hand, she had tactical skills, a month of SIGMA Training, and biotics on her side, though she had never taken a man's life before, so what could John make her do?

_Barrier support._ John settled upon, she'd displayed during their tennis match that she had a level of biotic control unseen for a girl her age, so that was what she would do.

_"__Miranda! Look at me!"_ John shouted, ducking his head as a bullet ricocheted off of the top of the table they were hiding behind. He responded by blindly firing two bullets over the table, discouraging the mercenaries from advancing and buying him precious seconds to speak to the girl. Miranda, fear in her eyes, obeyed, staring at John, whose own eyes practically leaked confidence. _"__I need a barrier! A big one, you make me a barrier that I can shoot out of, but they can't shoot into!"_ He demanded, shouting only loud enough so the girl could hear him, but not so loud that the men in the cramped room could do the same.

A second of hesitation was all the girl gave, before determination filled her features, she gave a nod.

_Alright, she's_ _focused._ John scowled in determination, "On_ my mark! Three…_" John began the countdown, he inhaled deeply.

He had counted a dozen men, he'd seen three in armor, they would be his first targets, but if he could execute the unshielded men quicker, he would do so, it would remove a lot of suppressive and dangerous fire from the battlefield.

_"__Two!"_ He had to act quickly and decisively, with no room for hesitation, no doubt the men had already radioed in and the dozens of mercs left in the base were moving to their position, time was not a luxury he could afford to waste.

_"__One!…"_ He inhaled deeply and exhaled just as deeply, his grip on the Special Forces Pistol tightened, the safety was off, a round was triggered. His mind automatically, instinctually ran over everything about the weapon that had been hammered into his mind. The Mk. 21 Special Forces Pistol held a sixteen round magazine, with room for an extra round in the chamber, giving John seventeen rounds to fire from. It fired as fast as he could pull the trigger, though John couldn't risk losing control of the weapon. It could shatter the shields of an Alliance Marine with three shots, an OD3 and an N7 in four, and a SIGMA Operative in five. It fired magnum rounds, so even if John missed his target - either the mercs' head or their center of mass - it would still do a lot of damage to whatever it _did_ hit.

_"__MARK!" _Miranda flared brightly with biotic energy, as her arms flew outwards. The barrier came to life in front of the table, and John raised himself.

Time seemed to slow down; in front of him, all in some semblance of cover, be it an enormous test-tube filled with a green, viscous liquid, behind an overturned table, or simply crouched below eye level, were twelve mercenaries. They were the threats, John had completely filtered out the scientists also in the room. John aimed at the left-most side of the room, three shots soared from his pistol and destroyed the face of a Blue Suns. He shifted his aim to the right, two more shots, one to the chest and then one to the head, to a suit-merc. Another shift and two more shots took down another suit-merc, as the barriers began to glare brightly, signaling more fire and a weakened base. He could hear Miranda grunting under the pressure, and groaning under the pain, but she braved it and poured as much as she could into the barrier. John took down another suit with two more shots, and he got three more into the face of a Blue Suns before he went back to cover and tapped Miranda on the shoulder. She let the barrier fall. The room was five mercs lighter, but there were still seven firing upon them, thankfully only one of those was an armored Blue Suns, meaning he only had one more mercenary with energy shields to deal with.

_"__John I can't do that again!"_ Miranda shouted, holding one of her limp limbs, she looked up to the SIGMA Teen pleadingly, but then her face turned to a look of horror. _"__John, your arm!"_

John looked to his left arm, it had been tagged and was bleeding. John shook his head, _"__it's a flesh wound!"_ John shouted, checking the magazine in his pistol. He had two bullets left, one in the magazine, one in the chamber. If he hit them twice, he'd only take out one target before he had to change magazines, but if he hit two mercs both in the head, he could thin the numbers even more. _"__You did good, Miranda! Stay down, I've got this!"_ He shouted, he waited a few moments for a lull in the fire before he popped up out of cover.

He was greeted by the snarling face of a helmet less Blue Suns. The Blue Suns was greeted with the universal biotic SIGMA II greeting: A biotically assisted punch to the throat. The choking merc's shields were overloaded by the biotic energy from the SIGMA Teen, he backed up, rifle dropped, and hands going to his throat. John seized his chance, he leaped over his cover - ignoring Miranda's shriek - and grabbed the Suns. He shot the man once in the face, but caught the body. John's pistol went into its holster and in his hands now was the Merc's pistol - it was a flashy thing, if he had to guess it was some kind of magnum, it looked like an N7 Eagle, the pistol the N7 tended to use, that was a vastly superior upgrade to the ancient Desert Eagle. John didn't care, he grabbed the pistol off of the merc and placed his right hand on the merc's chest. Biotic energy kept the Merc afloat and his weight off of the SIGMA Teen, as latter surged forward, resisting an asinine urge to shout loudly. Most Human biotics had nowhere near the amp-less strength required to do what the SIGMA found himself doing, not just in this battle but in previous ones and in training, but most Human biotics hadn't been drilled like Spartans since childhood and hadn't been hammered by Asari Commandoes to get it right, so while John felt biotic fatigue pull at him, he ignored the feeling and took aim. John's Eagle barked loudly as its bullets surged forth, each pair hitting a target. Ten bullets of the pistol's ten round magazine, left the weapon, as dozens of bullets slammed into the Merc's corpse, the man's shields, his armor, and his body did wonders to protect the SIGMA Teen as he worked. Each of the ten bullets slammed into their targets, just as John sprinted across the room. John threw the body to the left, his Eagle to the right, and withdrew his SFP, the final suit-merc shouted in fear as it saw the fourteen year old demon leap forward, tackle him to the ground, and execute him with a bullet to the throat, blood and small bits of loose gore covered the teen's face.

A few of the scientists in the room tried to rush John, deciding they would be better off dying while fighting instead of simply dying because the demon child looked at them funny; but one bullet from Miranda tore through the shoulders of one of them, freezing the others in shock. John didn't wait, he jumped to his feet, and in one fluent motion clicked open the pouches on his belt that held the magazines to his SFP, he grabbed a magazine, smacked it into his pistol and chambered a round, he pointed it at each of the scientists. The one in the center of the group looked important, so John singled him out. With such speed that the scientists were shocked that the child was Human, he dashed forward and slammed his boot into the kneecap of the scientist, shattering it and bringing him down to eye level, John grabbed the man's weaker arm and twisted it behind his back at a horrifying angle, he heard it snap but ignored the screams that came from it. The scientists almost instinctually expected John to hold the gun to the man's head, but instead John aimed the gun forward, keeping the man at arm's length and the barrel of the gun next to his ear. If looks could kill, the determined, yet emotionless scowl on John's face would have ended the men in the room.

_"__Freeze! Do not move!"_ The Child Soldier roared, his pubescent voice coming through for him as it failed to crack. The scientists obeyed, though one was clutching his shoulder in obvious pain. _"__Where is she?!"_ John demanded, spit flying from his mouth at his roars.

"Kid, you _don't_ know what you're doing here!" The scientist in his grip protested, as Miranda vaulted over her cover and sprinted around them, she ran to the back of the room, where the scientists had come from. "You're not doing what's best for Ori-" John slammed the butt of the gun on the man's head, sending stars shooting through the man's eyes as he clung desperately to consciousness, though John refused to drop him, he kept the man in between him and the other scientists at all costs.

_"__I'll decide what's best for my Sister!"_ Shouted Miranda, turning around to glare at the scientist who spoke.

_"__On your knees! All of you!"_ John ordered, the scientists all obeyed. "Faces on the ground, hands on the backs of your heads!" He shouted, as he heard Miranda continue moving. The scientists did so just as one single, piercing noise suddenly filled the room.

A baby's cries.

"Holy shit it worked!" A scientist shouted, forgetting to lie down, as he craned his neck, only to be met by a magnum round from John's gun. The scientist fell dead as the man John was holding shouted in obvious pain, his ear already beginning to bleed.

_"__I said faces on the ground!"_ The SIGMA Teen shouted, knowing full and well he just killed the man. _"__All of you! I will not hesitate!"_ He roared, before he finally slammed the gun into the lead scientist's head and knocked him out; John felt his skull crack just before he dropped him like a sack of potatoes and focused his pistol on the scientists, as he set to work. He could hear Miranda cooing and shushing what he assumed to be her sister, but that wasn't his concern at the moment. He crouched down next to the Blue Suns corpse, the man had been armed with a Special Forces Rifle, so John - ignoring the fact that he'd just killed an ex-Spec Ops - relieved him of his tactical vest, which was still loaded down with ammunition and grenades aplenty. A quick scan of the room and he located the SFR, he ripped it from the ground with biotics, and it landed in his hands, he holstered the pistol, and checked the rifle's magazine, it was half-full, with one in the chamber, so that equaled eighteen rounds.

"John, we need to go." He heard Miranda call as calmly as she could.

"Do you have the target?" John asked, not removing his unblinking eyes from the scientists.

"Yes."

"Then cover her ears." He stated, as he removed a flash-bang grenade from the light blue vest. The scientists flinched as he stepped over him, John stacked up next to the door, and tossed out a flash-bang; he had no idea if there were mercenaries outside, but he had to be sure. The grenade exploded, and he - rifle raised - surged outward, the hallway was empty, but he heard boots coming from the east.

"Come on!" He shouted urgently, looking back into the battle-scarred room.

Miranda had the child in her arms, it was a small thing, it reminded John that he had been like that once. Small, weak, unable to defend himself. He couldn't believe that had been a reality once, it didn't seem possible. Miranda had a very concerned look in her eyes, as she cradled the baby in her right arm, her left hand pushing the hair out of her own face. John couldn't tell if the concern was over the child or over the fact that she'd shot a man not two minutes ago, but as she exited the room, he wiped those thoughts from mind with the slam of the door, and the biotic crush of its bolt-lock. He felt his stomach grumble, he ignored it.

"Where do we go now?" John demanded, the sounds of the boots were getting louder.

"There's an emergency exit on the western side, follow me." Miranda said, but John stopped her.

"I go first. You keep her and yourself wrapped in a barrier." He ordered with a solemn nod, as his own barriers flickered to life.

Miranda looked at John with a look of protest in her eyes, but then she actually _looked_ at him. She'd seen him all day, she'd been putting him through things a normal teenage boy would do, playing video games, eating unhealthy foods, sports, and even watching ancient movies that friends of their family thought were amazing. He'd had the air and the look of simply being uncomfortable, the entire day. But here, with the tactical vest on his chest, the rifle cradled in his arms, and the determined scowl on his face, he looked at home, he looked comfortable, like _this_ was where he belonged. She couldn't argue with him, not when he looked like a veteran Marine, not when he had the look and feel of a man who could take on a thousand soldiers and live to tell the tale.

So she nodded, and John led the way. Miranda gave him auditory directions as the two moved through the facility. She had Oriana in her arms, the baby having calmed down now in the presence of Human contact, and He had his rifle in his arms, the machine of death silently waiting to sing his enemies the rat-a-tat-tat song of its kind. Twice did they run into mercenaries, twice did John put them down with horrifying efficiency, the bullet casings cascaded to the ground in waves as he pressed the trigger for small bursts at a time. After several minutes passed - during which Henry Lawson himself got on the intercom and told the mercenaries to find the three - the three got to the escape exit. It was an escape pod, not at all dissimilar to the Orbital Dropping Death Dealers' Orbital Insertion Vehicle.

"They'll shoot us to the surface." Miranda stated.

"This is overt." John stated, as he began programming the pods. They hadn't gone through OD3 training yet, but he knew the basics of programming an escape pod, and unless this was a model dating before 2179, he was more than certain he wouldn't have a problem getting it to shoot them to the surface.

"I know."

"Have a plan?"

"Not one you'll like…"

"Try me."

"We run as fast as we can… My transport's waiting a few kilometers out, in a clearing in a forest."

John paused, he looked at Miranda, his rifle held by the grip in his left hand, as his right hand hovered over the touch-screen interface. "You've exhausted yourself with biotics, and you're carrying a baby. You think you can run a few kilometers?"

"I'll have to." Was what Miranda responded with, her jaw set in determination, as she ambled into the reverse drop-pod. She carefully maneuvered the infant so it would be comfortable in her arms, and safe, before she nodded to John. John nodded back and launched her escape pod, before he programmed his own, stepped in, and launched it as well.

* * *

><p>It was nearing midnight, Alliance Standard Time, and Joseph Ducard S1-99 was getting antsy. For the entire day he'd been scanning Australia with drones, their Rug Protocol test run was running out, and that would mean 2-15 would be able to leave, very soon. Ducard still found it difficult to believe that John - the very same young man that was being considered for SIGMA II Alpha Squad - would have run off like this. The Earth Defense Fleet was on <em>standby<em> at this moment, ready to deploy entire battalions of Orbital Dropping Death Dealers if they found the SIGMA Teen. They hadn't been on a readiness level like this since Mindoir.

At least three hits had come up in the last hour, of young men who fit John's description, but each time Police Forces had gone in to check out the situation, before calling in the cavalry, their results had come up negative, coincidental look-alikes. Though John _was _good, he couldn't hide forever; not from the most advanced military in Human history pulling out almost all of the stops to find him.

"Ducard!" He heard a voice shout, "Commander Ducard! We have him!" The SIGMA in question rounded the corner and sprinted into the room, his smart-watch activated and showing a live-video feed from a sub-orbital unmanned aerial vehicle.

Ducard whipped around was next to the unarmored SIGMA in an instant, he dragged the video to his own smart-watch and looked at it. The SOUAV was showing not a fleeing teenager, or a teen trying to look casual in a city, but a _battle._ Mercenaries were fighting the SIGMA Teen, who was - by the look of it - desperately trying to defend a girl. A quick command had the SOUAV zoom in and focus, and Ducard didn't even have to run facial recognition, _all_ the pieces fell into place when he saw the girl's face. Every question he'd asked was answered the second he placed her next to John, and vice-versa.

It was Miranda. Miranda S2-106, Delta Company's unofficial 'SIGMA Sister'.

John hadn't run, he hadn't deserted, he'd gone off to help a fellow SIGMA. She had contacted him - somehow - and had convinced him to skip his Earth Trip to help her. Now he was armed with a rifle and his pistol, and he was rapidly shifting from fleeing from the advancing horde of mercenaries, to digging in with his biotics and buying Miranda time to flee herself. Ignoring the stupidity of John's decision and the anger that Ducard felt at the teen's presumption, he felt a small flicker of pride, apparently he had done _something_ right when he'd taught these kids that family meant more than personal needs. This wouldn't rescue John from the hell that was sure to follow, but it validated a lot of what he'd done.

"Do you want me to get the SSV Kosciuszko and -"

"Belay that, for now." Ducard ordered straightly.

_"__Sir?!"_ The SIGMA was dumbfounded.

"Look at him." Ducard requested, indicating the live-feed. "that's got to be… Sixty mercenaries he's fighting. And it's _only_ him fighting them, Miranda's… protecting something, she's not using her gun." He grinned, despite himself. "I'll make the call… But I want to see this first. Prep the OD3's." He had been debriefed by McGraw personally regarding John's 'circumstances', this was as good a time as any to see if McGraw's theories held water.

"O… Okay… Sir." The SIGMA saluted, and left the room.

* * *

><p>John 'Shatner' S2-15 dived into cover. His 'cover' was, in fact, a large boulder sitting in a grassy field, in the distance, he could see a forest, he hoped the forest was what Miranda was after, because this was the last place he could make a stand, there was no cover anywhere else, not until the trees in the distant forest, but they were far too far away.<p>

_"__Miranda, you need to run!"_ John shouted, over the hail of gunfire and the roar of engines. Henry's mercenaries had brought jeeps and other such vehicles, but hadn't tried to run John and Miranda over, after John had killed the three drivers who had tried to, and disabled the engines of their vehicles with several well-placed shots. Unfortunately for him, they couldn't run any longer either, Miranda was tiring and he wouldn't leave her behind.

_"__John, I can't leave you! You'll die!"_ Miranda shouted, her accent thick and helping her voice carry itself over the gunfire.

John broke cover and shot at the mercenaries, his rifle spat hot lead as it tore apart the chests of three men, before he got back behind the boulder.

_"__You can, and you will!" _John argued as he ripped off a small black sphere from his tactical vest. It was the only one he had, and this was the very reason he'd kept it.

Alliance Cover-Spheres were designed to be portable cover, if a soldier was without the life-preserving, all-important cover, he could deploy one of these and hide behind it. They were made with a cocktail of precious metals, and their cybernetics had three settings: Grenade, Cover, and Portable shield. John set the machine to portable shield and tossed it into the ground in front of them. In the span of seven seconds it went from a small sphere to a ovular object with a belt, waiting to be clicked onto its wearer.

_"__No! You'll -"_

_"__Miranda!"_ John heard the explosion of a grenade, the mercenaries had horrible throwing arms. _"__You yourself said you're the mission! You and her! You will get out of here and I will make sure you do!"_ He bellowed, ejecting his SFR's magazine, which he threw off into the darkness, it disappeared long before he slapped in a new one. _"__Put that thing on and click the belt, it'll cover your back! Run fast and you'll make it!" _

_"__But -"_ Miranda protested.

_"__NO BUTS! GO!"_ John screamed angrily, his eyes conveyed that he was deadly serious.

Miranda considered arguing, but John broke cover again and fired. She knew he wouldn't take no for an answer, and the crying baby in her arms demanded all her attention. She clenched her sister tight against her chest with one arm, as she picked up the heavy back-pack like slab of metal with her other. She clicked the belt onto her waist, and it constricted around her, so it wouldn't fall.

"You run when I say so!" John shouted, falling back to cover. The Mercenaries knew that this was his last stand, so they were setting up around them, intent on providing them with no escape, but John made their flanking attempts hell. "_GO!"_ He screamed.

Miranda tore off running, she sprinted faster than she ever had before. She could hear John behind her, his rifle barking as it tore into the mercenaries, its wielder as silent as death. Every instinct she had told her to turn her head and look one last time, but she ignored them, she did _not_ want to see him die. The wind ripped at her face, and the slab of metal dragged in it, but she ignored the uncomfortable feeling and continued running, full-tilt. Oriana began shrieking in her arms, Miranda blinked back tears as she continued sprinting. The baby had only been alive for a few hours, now, and already it had seen a battle, Miranda couldn't help a smile at the thought.

_Welcome to Humanity, Oriana._ She thought, as she continued tearing across the ground. It only took her a moment for realization to dawn on her, _oh god... I sound like McGraw._

Two minutes passed and she broke the tree-barrier, the sounds of battle were muffled by the distance, but still present. The only light she had to guide herself with was the light of Earth's only satellite, Luna, it cast a pale white glow through the canopy of trees, giving her some semblance of a heading. She unclicked the cover-sphere and quickly - but carefully - made her way through the forest. Oriana was tightly held against her chest with her left arm - but not so tightly that she couldn't breathe - and in her right hand was her pistol. Her pistol was extended, but her arm wasn't locked, she knew that would make the gun jump, her SIGMA Month had taught her that. She desperately wanted to lock her arm, though, some sort of instinctual desire to tighten every possible part of her body against the situation, she didn't know how to put the feeling into words.

The trek through the forest seemed to take forever, the sounds of battle behind her told her that John was still alive, but she had no honest idea how long he would continue to be so. She eventually broke the tree-barrier, and was greeted by a sight that nearly made her cry with joy. It was a ship, long, sleek, with a black paint job, powerful in appearance. Its owner stood at its open cargo-bay door, cane in his left hand, pistol in his right. Three mechs, all armed with rifles, surrounded him.

_"__Who's there?!"_ Bright lights switched on, shrouded the man in shadows, and blinded the teen.

Instinctively Miranda turned her back to the lights and covered her sister with her body. "It's _me,_ Sir!" She shouted loudly.

She'd had no choice but to contact Cerberus. They were the only ones could contact, that had access to a private _fleet. _McGraw and her father's data had recommended them to her, in their own mysterious ways, she hoped and prayed that her plea wouldn't turn into a mistake.

_"__Lawson?"_ The familiar voice shouted, _"__what's the pass-phrase?!" _

It took her only a second to remember it, "one giant leap!" She called out.

The moment that passed seemed to stretch on for eternity, but then the spotlights switched off, and after Miranda's eyes adjusted, she couldn't believe what they showed her.

It was McGraw. _Christopher McGraw._ Was he seriously the Cerberus Contact she'd been promised? He'd been the mastermind behind this entire thing, he'd known everything she'd needed, and yet he didn't come out with it? She shook the thoughts from her head as she approached the man.

"Where's John?" McGraw called, his voice holding a serious edge that she had never heard in it before, as he scanned the treeline.

"He told me we had to go, _now!"_

"Miranda, I've got an Australian Hand of God and an Alliance Destroyer angling to shoot my ship down because I've been playing the 'too ignorant to get a translator' angle. They think I'm a Russian businessman who doesn't know what the Summer Contingency is. I'm not leaving until I know my SIGMA is _safe!"_

"He told me he'd be alright!" Miranda shrieked, "but we have to go _now!"_

McGraw paused for a moment, before he groaned, "alright, get aboard!" He shouted, as the ships' engines' whines increased. "_Gladys, prepare for an in-atmosphere jump! We can't risk hitting orbit with the Alliance Dogs sniffing our ass."_ He shouted.

* * *

><p>John saw the private ship rocket into the air. It hovered in mid-air for a moment as it re-angled, John realized just as it rocketed forward that it had angled <em>towards him.<em> He crouched low and raised his rifle as the ship bolted past him, he could see the tell-tale glow that told him its primary weapon had collected enough of a charge to fire. When it passed him he heard the thunderclap that came from a railgun blast, and just a second later saw a bright blue flash as the blue-gray Entry Point opened _in-atmosphere,_ and the ship soared into it, leaving the Earth at several light years per second. He waited only a moment for the dust, dirt and debris to settle from the rail-gun blast before he broke cover and fired again. The Mercenaries were stunned and distracted, but they still knew where their target was, and in a few moments they focused fire on him again. He'd taken out fifteen men during the time between Miranda's flee and the ship's departure, though he didn't know how many _it_ had taken down, and he had taken a bullet in his other arm and in his thigh for his troubles. He was running low on ammunition for his rifle, and had only one grenade left. He was breathing deeply and heavily, Mindoir had been one thing, there he'd had back-up in the form of Soldiers, Marines, and eventually SIGMAs and OD3's. Here, he was by himself, and he had all of Henry Lawson's mercenaries baring down on his neck.

Was this his time? Was he supposed to just bite the bullet and say he went down protecting his own? The odds were stacked against him, he was running low on ammunition, and his enemies were baring down upon him harder and harder with every passing moment.

No, even if he was still a teenager, he was a SIGMA, and that meant he couldn't give up. Stacked odds were a norm for SIGMA Operatives, low ammunition was expected, tough enemies were always. He couldn't give up, he'd be letting down everyone he'd ever known, his mother included.

With a deep inhale, and a deeper exhale, John broke cover and took targets. Three more fell to his rifle, and another was soon to do the same when he noticed something. It was a slight light in the clouds above him. Odd, given that they weren't dark enough to be storm clouds. John got back to cover and looked up, a second passed, and his eyes widened, as he saw meteors falling through the clouds, their flaming trails lit up the sky around them, turned the clouds bright orange and the sky in their immediate vicinity turned sky-blue as the light radiated off of them, as they themselves closed the distance from orbit to the ground.

Orbital Insertion Vehicles.

Orbital Dropping Death Dealers.

John felt elated and terrified at the same time. They were either here to capture and kill him, or assist and _then_ capture him. Whatever their goals, he couldn't help but stare in awe at the beauty of a night-deployment. OD3's very rarely were deployed during the night, the night was the N7's domain, they used stealth and espionage, where the OD3's used bombs and bigger bombs. So seeing the Orbital Insertion Vehicles hurtle towards the ground, in the dead of night, was a sight to behold. The only problem was, John realized, that the OIV's didn't stop.

Where first there was one, one turned to three, turned to five, turned to ten, and they still kept coming. John's jaw fell as more and more broke the cloud barrier, they weren't simply sending a squad, they were sending a whole damn _company!_ So many OIV's filled the sky that the Mercenaries couldn't have possibly missed it, and they didn't. Eventually the gunfire stopped as everyone stared in awe at the sight. Five seconds passed before the OIV's hit the Earth, and soon all eighty Orbital Insertion Vehicles slammed home, their thrusters flaring for just a second, long enough to make certain that the OD3's didn't dig their own graves, and in seconds the Alliance's own Suicide Leapers streamed out, calling out enemies and picking targets. Immediately the bullets started flying again, but, John realized, they weren't flying towards him. The OD3's were shooting at the mercenaries, who were shooting at the OD3's.

To John's horror, though, one more OIV slammed home, this one mere yards from him; and out from it, came a SIGMA Operative. Two more OIV's, two more SIGMAs, and the Augmented Elite sprung into action. Their rifles spat lead and targets fell to their guns as they killed with superhuman efficiency. In mere minutes, the battle was over. The mercenaries were overwhelmed with firepower, numbers, technology, and raw _skill._ The three SIGMAs, John knew, would have been more than enough, but no, John was essentially a deserter, and a SIGMA deserter at that, the Alliance would stop at nothing to get him.

To prove John's thoughts, the second the last mercenary fell, every gun in the immediate area was trained upon him. John acted on instinct and raised his as well, anyone else would drop their weapon, but a SIGMA never gave up his.

_"__Dealers! Lower your weapons!"_ John's heart sank, he knew this voice. _"__John, put the rifle on the ground!"_ Ducard knew to specify which weapon John had to drop. _"__That's an order!"_ John obeyed, and in a moment, the fully armed and fully armored SIGMA I Operative was staring him down.

The SCBA-like gas-mask, with the frosted, reflective golden visor bore deep into John's dark blue eyes. John matched the stare and returned it, and he and his Commanding Officer stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity.

Ducard finally broke the silence, _"__what do you have to say for yourself?"_ He asked, what terrified John was the fact that the man wasn't shouting. His voice was calm, as calm as it would be if the man were speaking to the Alliance Director for Affairs himself. John's silence beckoned further words from the Augmented Veteran, _"__you ran away. You deserted. You made a body count. You made us deploy a battalion of Orbital Dropping Death Dealers to deal with a private security force. You forced us to initiate the Rug Protocol to freeze the system. The __**Sol-System! **__This wasn't a scheduled test, despite what we've had to say to the United Nations. Do you know how many Alliance Navy ships had to change their deployment plans? Do you know how many Quick Reaction Fleets are flying through the Warp, as fast as they can, to get to Earth? To confirm with Arcturus that we haven't been hit?! __ Do you know how many people on _Earth _you've terrified with your actions? Do you know what political tension you've caused on the Human/Council borders because of the silence from Earth? Do you know how that __**looks**__!? Do you know how much tension you have caused and will cause between Arcturus and the UN? We unlawfully deployed Alliance Resources to deal with an issue outside of our jurisdiction! If they pushed it they could very well start a damned war! A _civil war_ between Earth and the Human Systems Alliance!_" The man demanded, still calmly, _"__what do you have to say... For yourself?"_

John held Ducard's gaze for the briefest of moments, "I submit myself to the authority of the Alliance and am ready for punishment."


	15. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

* * *

><p><em>"People speak sometimes about the 'bestial' cruelty of man, but that is terribly unjust and offensive to beasts, no animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, so artistically cruel."<em>

**_—Fyodor Dostoyevsky_**

* * *

><p><em><strong>April 4<strong>__**th**__**, 2216**_

* * *

><p>One would think that, being a Commander in one of the most downright <em>feared<em> military units in the galaxy's long, colorful, and assuredly _bloody_ history, one would expect to not be challenged so brazenly by people that one could break apart without any real effort. Of course, Joseph Ducard S1-99, the Commander in question, had never been put in such a position - his contact with the 'real world', that being the civilian one, had been limited at best ever since he'd taken the assignment with the II's. But with John S2-15's actions and Ducard's subsequent _re_actions, many things had changed in a veritable domino effect.

First, in order to tie up the loose end that had been deploying a _battalion_ of Orbital Dropping Death Dealers, and to cover up the fact that they had all just threatened - and nearly killed - a fourteen year old boy, he'd had to make up a lie that John had been a prototype infiltration mech that had gone rogue. It wasn't entirely a lie, unfortunately, as the Alliance _did_ have such mechs, aptly called the 'Skynet Mechs', a few were even working their way through the Asari Government as he stared at the man in front of him, but none of the machines were children, there was too much hassle in trying something like that. Then, of course, he had to find the witnesses who had seen John's stunt and either silence them or convince them not to speak, which had been easier than he would have considered, given the fact that most people would be frightened to death of a heavily scarred seven foot tall man to begin with, but the same man in powered armor? He was surprised none of them had defecated themselves. Finally, there was the problem with the UN.

John's stunt, and Ducard's subsequent stunt, had ratcheted up the tensions between the Alliance and the United Nations. Some were threatening _war,_ worse, rumors were that Vito Santiago and his Blue Suns would _back_ the Earth, due to many of their operatives being killed as a result of 'unlawful warfare' on the part of the Alliance. The Alliance, subsequently, was having to divert entire battle groups and reconnaissance flotillas from the war with the Hegemony and the Alliance/Council and Alliance/Terminus borders, respectively, in order to quell _these_ threats.

But what confounded the SIGMA more than anything, was the man standing in front of him. Short by his standards, the six foot tall man was staring him down as if the two were equal in size and in stature, the man wasn't thickly built at all, his average frame belying his broad shoulders. His business attire, consisting of a dark gray tuxedo and an eerie, blood red tie _would_ have conveyed some sense of cold superiority, had the man chosen to cover his eyes, two dark green orbs which told anyone who looked in to them that they were _right_ to fear him, that he controlled _everything_ he saw and that he had the power to do whatever he wanted without consequence. He had exercised this suggested power by openly _threatening_ Ducard, whose heart was hammering and his mind was seething at the realization that this man _probably could_ do whatever he wanted, because if it was who he thought it was, then he _did_ have the requisite connections, whereas Ducard only knew the Director for Augmented Affairs, and even then his relationship was cursory at best, not at all like the DfAA and John Doe, who had trained and served together.

"My point was made clear." Said the man, in response to Ducard's continued silence and stone-faced glare. "_You_ want desperately to avoid a civil war between Earth and the Human Systems Alliance. _I_ can provide that. _You_ want to make certain that mankind isn't split down the middle, with Sparta caught in the middle, _I _can make that happen."

Ignoring the enormity of the man's political power implied by that statement, Ducard held his ground, after all: There was no damned way he'd be successfully threatened by a pale-skinned six foot man whose neck was looking enticingly fragile. "But what you want in return is too steep a price, Mister -"

"I think we will skip the pleasantries." Said the man, his deep voice belying his mysterious request. "You and I both know I am not here in any official capacity. I am here as a _favor_ to you SIGMAs, and as a duty to myself." He reached in to his suit jacket and pulled out a circular device, smaller than the palm of his hand, with wire-thin tendrils that simply hung loose, swaying freely with the machine's momentum. "This is the very machine you shall do the deed with. You are going to augment them in _days,_ regardless. So what is _one_ SIGMA trainee versus what will eventually envelop all of Sparta?" Fortunately for Ducard, he had convinced the infuriating, implacable man in front of him that John was a One in training, and seeing as the man had never gotten a good look at the Two, he'd somehow bought it, showing that while he may claim to be connected, he wasn't as well connected as he thought he was.

"I plan on punishing SIGMA One-Two Fifteen myself. Your suggestion is duly -"

"How about I make myself absolutely, _abundantly_ clear?" Said the man, he placed the device on the table between the two men, before he looked up again at Ducard, the room seemed to darken at the man's emotionless scowl. "I have many ways of intimidating people... But you? You will not be intimidated by me, I am a mere, common, _man."_ He said, "so instead, I will state a fact, that _will_ register with you, SIGMA One-Ninety Nine. I read your charter." Ducard's frown turned in to an outright enraged scowl as he realized where the man was going with this. "I know what the SIGMAs' charge is, and I _know_ what they are capable of under this charter. _I know of Protocol Sixty-Six._ If I wanted, I could convince the Alliance that the _SIGMAs_ were in and of themselves a _threat._ Many in parliament do not know of what you are legally allowed to do... But if they did, perhaps they could appease the UN by exterminating the _rogue military faction_ responsible for their unlawful actions upon earth. Perhaps by exterminating the entirety of the augmented elite, the very war you do not want to happen could be avoided."

"You're bluffing." Stated Ducard, "no one is that connected." But he felt a bead of sweat run down the back of his neck, as he realized that a silver tongued, well connected man - like the one standing in front of him - _could_ convince Parliament to pin the entire thing on the SIGMAs, and worse, it could very easily lead to some kind of counter-operation on Sparta. Many Humans looked up to and respected the SIGMAs, the 'guardians of Humanity', but _many_ more outright feared them.

The Mysterious One stared Ducard directly in the eye, "_I_ am. And you _don't_ want me to prove it to you." He said, the look in his eyes fierce enough to even make the Commander back down. "So you have two options; both avoid this potentially unavoidable civil war. But one sacrifices the memories of _one_ SIGMA, whilst the other sacrifices the lives of them _all."_

Ducard repressed a livid growl, it instead coming out as a deep sigh, "you're talking about something beyond immorality, here." He didn't note the irony of that statement, given his position.

"You are one to speak." Ducard blinked, did he just -"this device will wipe away _all_ of the relevant memories. What is immoral about something one would not even recall?" The man asked.

"_It_ is evil and so are _you."_ Ducard was cornered and there was no way out, and the man in front of him _knew it._

"So is leaving an exaton weapon on the Citadel." Said the man, who didn't even give Ducard a grin when the SIGMA's scowl deepened at the mention of the Alliance's blackest op. He nodded respectfully, "I will know if you short-change me, SIGMA. Sparta will know. The _galaxy_ will know." He made his way to the door but then paused, his hand resting on the doorknob; he perked his head, as if he'd remembered something, and then glanced at the Commander over his shoulder. "And I'm not a monster. I'm just ahead of the curve." He left the room, leaving Ducard to stew with his thoughts.

Ducard looked down at the simple, seemingly innocuous machine laying on the table. Seeing red, the livid super soldier rammed his fist in to the table, leaving a deep dent just an inch away from the device.

* * *

><p>Titan Medical Station was one of the largest medical stations orbiting Earth. It was finished alongside the Beijing Space Elavator, back in 2213. It lies in geo-synchronous orbit with Earth, though it is far above orbit, so much so that it can't be seen from the ground, unlike many other Space Stations. It had over three hundred zero-gravity surgery rooms, a mech wing with four hundred AI-Piloted Surgeon Mechs, and an armed guard consisting of United Nations forces, specifically, American, Chinese, and Russian soldiers. Almost immediately after it was opened to the Alliance, it had been used, as wounded warriors from all sorts of wars, from border disputes to pirate raids and Rebel battles, Titan Medical Station was the very best place to go if you were wounded.<p>

It also, unbeknownst to the general public, came complete with a full suite of medical and nano-augmentation facilities. The most recent SIGMA I graduates had come to Titan to get augmented, and the SIGMA II's were due to get both rounds of augmentations here, the first coming within the next few days.

John-S2-15 knew little about the SIGMA I augmentation procedure, primarily because Ducard had always maintained that it wasn't something the II's ever needed to know, but conversely he knew nearly everything about the SIGMA II Augmentation Process. The first augmentations came when the SIGMA II's turned fourteen, they were biological and medical augmentations, designed to increase their immune systems, muscle density and strength, and bone strength and durability. It was also meant to increase their brain's ability to develop, far beyond the ability of a normal Human being, SIGMA II's after their first augmentations were - supposed to be, according to Christopher McGraw, who had made the outlines for the augmentation procedures - to have near perfect memories, an almost limitless capacity to learn and retain knowledge, and should be able to solve the most complex of problems and situations in heartbeats. Furthermore, their growth hormones would be directly stimulated, both to give then an increased height and bone structure, but also to age their bodies from teenaged developing to adult prime. John knew that the First Augs did a lot more, but they paled in comparison to the Eighteen Year Augmentations.

The SIGMA II Primary Augmentation Procedure essentially turned the SIGMA II's from Humans, into cyborgs. The augmentation procedure, among other things, inserted millions self-replicating nanomachine colonies were also into the Operative, which would serve numerous functions, as dictated by a Solid-State Drive that was located deep within the base of their spine; the nanomachine colonies could do anything from medical tasks, like accelerated healing and blood-loss restriction, to helping carry more oxygen through the blood, so the SIGMA would have less of a need to breathe as hard as a normal soldier. Machines were also grafted into their brains, which were essentially 'lite' versions of the very same machines in Christopher McGraw's brain, that gave him a near limitless capacity for knowledge. Carbon-nanotubes were bonded to their bones, these nanotubes were grafted all across their skeletons, essentially turning their entire skeletal structure into an indestructible web.

The SIGMA I's equivalent to the II's nanotubes was a cocktail of extremely durable metals grafted onto their skeletons, accomplishing the same thing, but at a price. Bone marrow is the penultimate producer of blood cells in the body, with lymph nodes and other minor organs producing small amounts and extras on their own. Because of this bones are very porous, being riddled with capillaries allowing new white and red cells out. The first generations of SIGMA I's had been augmented before the scientists had thought of this, and thus they had to go through secondary augmentations which added in nanomachines to help supplement their suddenly removed ability to produce blood cells. Carbon Nanotubes had come around a decade before the Second Contact War, but by the time the SCW Hit, over three fourths of the SIGMA I's had the 'wrong augmentations', the legendary John Doe S1-1 was among them.

Many SIGMA I's with the wrong-augmentations eventually had to retire, due to the simple fact that their bodies couldn't fight themselves anymore, much less continue fighting Humanity's enemies. To date, there were only a dozen 'Original' SIGMA I's left in active service, with the wrong-augmentations, all twelve are veterans of all of the Alliance's wars, and half of them did time in SIGMA Alpha Team. The only remaining Original SIGMA that is _still_ in SIGMA Alpha team was the original, the very first, John Doe S1. He was a legend amongst the SIGMA Program, especially amongst the II's.

John Doe S1-1 was the _very first_ SIGMA Operative to have been made in Alliance History. It was he, and a company of sixty other SIGMA Recruits, that all went through the extremely experimental procedure. Only a quarter of the 'First SIGMAs' made it, but John Doe was the very first one they augmented, so they changed his name completely, so if he died, he was simply a John Doe. Very few knew exactly how the man was still alive, given that he has been serving since 2157, when the first SIGMA Operatives were augmented, and rumors had it that the man was in his thirties when he was augmented, so that put him in his nineties, now. Some rumored that it was his SIGMA Augmentations that kept him alive, some said that when he hit his seventies he donned an experimental set of Titan Armor that would keep his body functional and combat ready, until it simply couldn't handle the stress, some simply said that he kept himself alive out of spite, and out of the raw desire to continue to protect and serve the Human Race with his every breath. The rumors, as varied as they are numerous, all revolved around one fact: The Man was a true living legend.

John-S2-15 had always harbored a desire to meet the man, the myth, the legend, and he didn't expect, when he'd awoken on Sparta the previous morning, that he would get just that opportunity. When he'd been taken from Earth and brought to Titan Station, Ducard had told him that he wasn't to be going back to Earth, and that his 'vacation' would be spent on the station, as they worked out a suitable punishment for him. John's every movement was being watched by a specialized SIGMA AI that was simultaneously helping work the station. John knew that Ducard and the Director for Augmented Affairs were both having a heated discussion about his fate, but that had been stuffed into the back of his mind when he came to view the inside of an occupied surgery room.

Titan Station wasn't at all designed for civilian use, so the viewing windows into the surgery rooms were for surgeons, doctors, and nurses in training to take notes. It was also useful for the bored fourteen year old Child-Soldier to peek inside and see what was going on. Inside, however, John saw something _no_ SIGMA II could claim he'd seen, he saw John Doe. _The_ John Doe! But John wasn't performing some feat of heroic Human ingenuity within, rather, he was speaking to a Doctor, as he put on his Titan Armor's under-suit. The 'Smart Skin' suits were a specific feature of Titan Armor, the N7 and OD3 Powered Infantry Assault Armor had skin suits that could essentially 'grow' into their wounds, but Titan Smart Skin suits did all that and much more. They 'grew' into wounds, checked the wearer's bio-status, linked up with the Titan Armor itself, and had dozens of other features that John didn't yet know about. He did know that Smart Skin suits were a lot more thicker, and had a layer of modern dragon-skin armor underneath them, separating the outer skin from the inner skin, the body armor gave the SS Suit the appearance of being 'rigid', when in reality, its title, 'Second Skin', was all but the truth.

John knew why Doe was only donning the SS Suit, Titan Armor - even the Mark Ones the I's used - weighed several tons, the Mk. Ones brought two hundred plus pound operatives to near a thousand pounds of weight. They required special machinery, not at all unlike what the OD3's had to step into to assemble their Heavy PIAA Suits, to assemble around the SIGMA Operative, which was why they were very rarely seen outside the armor. It looked like Doe had said something to the white-haired doctor in the white lab coat, but John couldn't hear anything. John looked around the window and managed to spy a holographic panel, he hit it and got audio from within.

_"__- time?"_ Came Doe's voice.

The doctor sighed, sorrow was within it. _"__Your body's natural functions are beginning to overpower your augmentations. It's fighting itself to utter exhaustion. Your blood/lymph producers on your bones are your primary culprits, they're trying to make up for lost time, and the BL/Augs we made to counteract the Steel Grafts are taking the increased bone production as a sign that they aren't needed, so they're working _less." He explained. _"__That means that you're not getting enough new, 'fresh' blood through your system. The BL/Augs haven't simply stopped working, but their decreased production is noticeable enough that it has affected your health. The production underneath the steel grafts isn't anything to worry about, the emergency augmentations we made to counteract blood/lymph producers on the bones are still working, the fact that they're being out-worked notwithstanding."_

_"Can we fix it?"_

_"In a word? No."_

_"__So how much time do I have?"_ Doe asked again, looking at the Doctor.

_"__I would say… A decade at most, before your body's natural functions simply win out, and you make Stephen Hawking look like he'd been an active individual." _The Doctor supplied.

_"__And at the worst?" _

_"__Six months, twelve days." _

_"__That's exact." _

_"__Your former team mates have suffered from similar side effects. The 'original twelve'? They're beginning to wash out, I've seen six of them the last decade. The Six Months, Twelve Days, was the shortest amount of time from when he'd began showing symptoms similar to yours, and when he had to retire completely, or risk body-crippling injuries."_ The Doctor explained.

Doe sighed deeply, he looked up to the window. John made a cautionary step back, his eyes widening as Doe's met his. Doe looked youthful, his pale white skin wasn't sagging, despite his advanced age. He had a shaved head and dark, _red_ eyes, but his eyes were what told John the story of Doe's life; they were filled with sorrow, pain, suffering and loss, but bubbling beneath all of that was a sense of determination, of conviction, they seemed to inspire John simply by looking at them. Doe sighed deeply again and looked at the doctor, John realized that the window must be one-way.

_"__Are you going to recommend -" _

_"__I know you, John. You wouldn't stop fighting even if your body did. I won't recommend you leave service… But I won't lie." _The Doctor interrupted the legend, _"__just… Don't let your sense of duty override basic Human instinct… You are _dying -" John felt his heart skip a beat, John Doe on his death bed? Was such a thing even possible? "- _don't you think, after over sixty years of straight service, you deserve to retire?" _

_"__Battle is what I know, doctor."_ Said Doe, _"__the Human race, despite what the Quarians will have us believe, is alone in the galaxy, in the universe. The second we met extraterrestrial life forms, they started killing us. I was _there _for First contact, the Quarians fired first, we almost went to war with _them!" He said, _"__Earth was our first test. Everything on it tried to kill us, but we made tools, clothes, armor, armies, cities, to protect ourselves. Then Eden came, its tame biosphere gave us our first break in millennia, decades went by in a peace that we didn't know what to do with. But then we met the Quarians, and our century of peace ended. The Turians, the Rebels, the Mercenaries, now the Batarians."_ He continued, _"__everything is against Humanity, here. The Alliance doesn't want our people to know, but it's the truth, Humanity is alone, and therefore, we need everything we can get. Every able-bodied man must be willing to take up arms and fight for his _species… _And I intend to fight for as long as I possibly can, and then a year longer."_ He finished, raw pride and determination was leaking from his tone; he looked down to the ground as he spoke, his eyes wide and his face wearing a pained, almost sorrowful scowl.

The doctor sighed, _"__alright then. If you truly wish…"_

_"__I do."_

_"__Then I will not recommend you stop fighting. But do think about what I've said, you deserve a break… You've given your species _everything."

_"__Not everything."_ Doe stated firmly,_ "__not yet."_ With his words, and a small grunt, he got to his feet.

John only had a second before it registered what was happening, but by that point Doe had already reached the door, and was coming out of the room. John reacted on instinct and sprung to attention, waiting to be spoken to or ignored, but Doe's words were what nearly broke seven full years of constant military training, simulations, and indoctrination.

"Come with me." Said Doe, as he made his way to the station's nearest observation room.

"Yes sir" John said quickly, as he fell in line behind Doe. Thoughts were flying through his mind faster than a ship would fly through the warp, what was Doe going to do to him? What did he want? Did he want anything? How did he even know to expect John?

It entered John's mind to ask these questions, but Doe had every look about him that he wanted their trek to be as long and as silent as possible. Many a time, as they walked through the station's long, rectangular corridors, Doe looked over his shoulder to look John over, but never did he make any decisive grunt or remark, he simply gave John a look, and then continued walking forward. John could feel a cold sweat beginning to form on his buzz-cut forehead and in his suddenly clammy hands, but he fought back the feeling of terror as they entered the main Observation room.

Doe led John to the window, out of which, they got a perfect view of the Earth. They were currently orbiting above North America, and John could see, near the continent's North Eastern edge, a building he'd only ever heard of. It was the New York Space Scraper, a building so enormous, so tall, and so magnificent, that it could be seen clearly from Space. John knew a little about it, that it had its own American National Guard presence, that its oxygen and power were both supplied from ground-based facilities, and that it was the single largest man-made building on the Earth, bested only by the single largest man-made _object_ on the Earth, the Beijing Space Elevator.

The view of Earth was majestic, in John's opinion. The ever since the Great Orbital Cleanup of 2176, the Earth's lower and outer orbit had been wiped clean of over ninety four percent of the space debris that had clouded up the orbit ever since the late twentieth century. The GOC allowed space-farers to see a nearly unpolluted and unblocked view of the Earth, as it was meant to be seen; the lush greens and healthy blues of the grass and oceans, the pure whites and dull grays of their clouds, and the shining gold of the cities at night, it all painted a picture that nearly everyone interpreted differently. Some saw the Earth's health and thought of the Human capacity for healing, in direct spite Humanity's thirst for war. Some saw Earth's lights and thought of Man's aptitude for technology and rapid advancement.

John, however, saw it all simply: Earth wasn't a symbol of anything, save for Humanity itself. Earth was a wild planet, full of plants and animals that would kill if they were given the chance, and yet despite the odds being stacked against him, Man rose up to power and conquered his Earth. Man was smart, so he gained sentience. Man was weak, so he made tools to do what his body could not. Man was creative, and he used his tools and his sentience to hunt and farm. Man was powerful, so he fought himself to prove it. But above all, Man was a survivor, everything from meteors to volcanoes, from bombs to nuclear and chemical weapons, and _everything_ in between, was used and thrown at Mankind, but they lived, either through stubbornness or through sheer force of will, was up for debate. Earth was a symbol not of Human power, strength, or healing capacity, but it was a symbol of Humanity in and of itself.

"It's beautiful." Said John Doe, pulling John from his reverie. "Isn't it?"

"Yes sir."

"I was born on Titan, the moon, believe it or not." The original warrior mentioned. "I never saw Earth until my three-day, pre-aug leave. I didn't see it again until the Second Contact War. I've only seen it once since, and that was to attend the Second Contact War memorial service, in New York." The man said, his tone calm and his voice somberly reflecting his past, his voice hoarse, no doubt through his _lifetime_ of servitude and battle. "but despite it all, I consider... I _believe_ Earth to be my home." A pause, "what do you believe, John?"

"I believe Earth is a symbol… But also a sacrificial lamb, for which rebel forces and corrupt politicians will use to validate horrific actions." John answered, "but I know why we fight… 'Never Again, Earth.'…" He quoted an Alliance Marine who had survived the New York bombing, the Marine in question was reported to still be in service. His words had essentially become the unofficial motto for the SIGMA Program.

_"__Numquam Iterum, Terrae_." Said Doe, in Latin. "Why do you think that is?"

"Because, where Soldiers see Earth as a fortress, SIGMAs see Earth as the homeworld. The only thing more important than the Earth is the Human race itself." John supplied, "to allow the Earth to be invaded, even by a single alien being, is a failure on our part that requires exact vengeance." A pause, "a thousand corpses for every drop of Human blood spilled on the homeworld." Another quote, but this one by a SIGMA, who had died due to Element Zero poisoning after the recapture of Tokyo.

Doe looked at John for a moment, John only noticed now how Doe's eyes were a deep red color, with flecks of synthetic looking blue. "Why do we fight?"

"For Earth, her colonies, her children, and her interests." John said it automatically, it was drilled into his mind since day one, it was a phrase he could never forget, that and 'Grenade, Get Down!', in over a dozen languages, including Kehlish and even Palsdan, the Turian language.

"Why do _you_ fight?" Doe asked specifically.

"For Earth -"

"You specifically."

John paused, "I…" His true reasons for why he fought were among the only things of his old life that he held on to. That and his last memory of his mother, of the last hug they shared, of the scent of space, and the warm feeling in his chest. "I fight so others don't feel the pain I felt before joining the program." He uttered slowly, "my mother was killed by alien mercenaries. I felt an indescribable pain when I learned this, and originally I powered through the program to make they who killed my mother pay."

"But?" Doe correctly predicted, his eyes not leaving John's, who had already broken eye contact to gaze back at the Earth.

"But then Mindoir happened. Not a day goes by that I don't think of the little Quarian girl trying to stuff her mother's gore back into her headless neck, smearing blood onto her bubble." John explained, "I realized that I wasn't the only one who felt pain at the hands of Humanity's enemies. I realized as I fought there, that I didn't want _anyone_ to feel the pain I felt, that she felt. So now I fight so no one else will feel the crippling, all-consuming pain of loss."

"I saw the satellite footage of the Lawson Mission." John suppressed a sigh, "why did you fight there?"

"Because Miranda Lawson S2-106 is a SIGMA II Operative, Sir. She is as much a sister to my and the Twos, as I am a brother to them, and they to me. I'd give my life for her as fast as I would for any of the Twos." John said, "not only that, but she was soon to feel the very same loss I felt, just in a different form. She had a sister on the way, that her father was going to enslave much in the same way he had done, her. So aside from the fact that I wouldn't hesitate to help a fellow SIGMA, I had to make sure she didn't feel that pain. I _had_ to." He stated firmly, though still unaware of the point of this conversation.

"You killed Humans to make sure she didn't feel that pain. Men with families. Families who will feel that pain, because of _you,_ Two Fifteen." Doe pointed out.

"And I regret every moment of their families' suffering." John stated sincerely, "I regret the suffering of every family I ruin, with each bullet I fire. But the fact is, the Human families I ruin can get over it, millennia of warfare has dulled us to the pain and agony of loss through battle. But not when faced with alien threats, it still hasn't sunk in that we truly aren't alone, and the galaxy isn't as peacefully empty as we thought. So when aliens kill Humans, Humans grieve far longer than they would if Humans killed Humans. Therefore, I must fight Humanity's enemies, to make sure Humanity's families do not feel that unending, all-consuming pain."

"Your logic has holes, Two Fifteen."

"But it makes sense."

"Sure it does." Doe nodded, his haggard face not betraying the thoughts behind his eyes. "You've seen more true, live-fire combat than every other SIGMA II in existence." He stated, John nodded silently as a response, "you've also done what no other SIGMA II has considered, you ran away, but you did so to help your own. You've shown leadership qualities not entirely unheard of amongst your generation, but of an entirely different caliber. When your company was dropped on Sparta's north pole, you rallied them to survive for more than two weeks." John remembered that with a sense of somber fondness.

When the SIGMA Kids had turned ten, and after six months of Army Training, the SIGMA Instructors had told them it was time for their first round of SERE Training, and for the first two months, they had focused primarily on 'Survival', by dropping the companies in several, varied environments. Delta Company's hardest trial had been the Arctic Trial, but John had rallied them all to work against the cold, to huddle together to conserve heat, as their branches dried to provide fire. He had helped them learn how to break through several inch thick ice to get to the fish below it, and for over two weeks they had survived, better than they had in the Forests, and in the Deserts. John said it was because of their unity, Delta Company said it was because of John.

"You've shown combat prowess beyond anything your fellow Biotics could hope for, by being the driving force behind _Vi-Contactus."_ Doe continued, as he reached into a pocket on his Smart Skin suit. "When you are faced with a challenge, you overcome it. When you are given a task, you accomplish it. Mindoir showed us this in spades." Doe explained, as his fist clenched over something in the pocket, before he removed his hand. "And when you make a mistake, you _own it_ without hesitation_._ The Lawson Mission exemplified this." A pause, "I've spoken with Ducard and with Director Trent. A punishment is still coming." John repressed a sigh, Doe still had something to say, "but you've shown us that you possess the necessary qualities to be better than the best." Doe extended his hand to John, and opened it; John's breath caught fast in his throat. "John… Welcome to SIGMA Two Alpha Squad."

In Doe's hand was a pin. The SIGMA II Program's symbol was an Eagle, clutched in its left talon was a Rifle, an ancient blunderbuss, and in its right was a bundle of grenades. Behind the Eagle was the Greek Letter Sigma, Σ. This pin had the SIGMA II Program's symbol, but the Greek Letter was layered underneath another letter, Alpha, Α. The same symbol for SIGMA I Alpha Squad, the very best squad of the very best SIGMA I's, of which, the man, the myth, the legend, John Doe S1-1 was, and is, a part of. John had heard rumors of SIGMA II Alpha Squad being considered in the wake of SIGMA II Deployments in the Batarian War, but he'd never thought he would be a part of it, let alone be _leading_ it, as shown by the Sergeant's Bars underneath the SIGMA II Symbol.

"I…" John stammered, wide eyed and slack-jawed, as he took the pin and held it reverently in his left hand.

"Remember what responsibilities come with being a part of Alpha Squad. Failure is not an option, even in the face of extreme adversity." The Original SIGMA reinforced, "you are among the best your class can provide. You will, as Squad Leader, be leading two other men into situations and missions that would require entire regiments of marines to do, otherwise." A pause, "I'll leave the choice of who else gets put into the squad, to you. Ducard and Trent left me that decision." Doe said. "But remember your numbers."

John nodded absentmindedly, SIGMA Squads had decreased from five-man numbers to three, in the wake of the Second Contact War. When the Turians had deployed their versions of the SIGMAs, the 'Ghosts', their vastly superior numbers had forced the Director for Defense's hand, he'd spread the SIGMAs who had survived Earth, out as far as possible. It only took them a day to learn that too many SIGMAs to a battle zone was a misuse of precious, augmented resources, but too few risked the Operatives' lives. Soon, it was learned that three was the magic number, three SIGMAs to a squad were effectively able to hold off the Ghosts, long enough for Human forces to regroup, and for Hand of God satellites to position for a mass-bombing, Satellite weaponry and enormous explosives were the primary reason there was such a disproportionate ratio of Ghost to SIGMA casualties. Three men squads were how SIGMAs functioned, and three men squads were how the SIGMAs dominated.

"I…" John shook his head, and clenched the pin tightly; composing himself, John spoke clearly, "thank you, sir!" He said, "for such an honor." He fired off a salute.

The Legend, S1-1, fired off a salute as well. "Remember what you fight for, John." He said, his augmented ears picking up the footsteps of another Human being, the sound of the footsteps suggested a heavy weight, he assumed it was Ducard. "And remember, you'll be leading those you choose into the toughest battles Humanity can possibly find. You won't simply be a three-man army, you'll be a three-man _military_, Two Fifteen." A quick pause, Doe needed to wrap this up, "you'll be upholding every single value the Alliance has taught you." A nod, "don't disappoint."

John nodded, as did Doe, before the latter turned. Ducard came to a stop in front of Doe, and fired off a salute. "S-One."

"Ninety Nine." Doe returned the salute, "go easy on the kid." A shadow of a grin graced the legend's face, but Ducard's only darkened with a single, solitary nod. Ducard focused his serious glare upon the SIGMA Teen. "Come with me."

John followed without hesitation.

* * *

><p><em>"<em>_What?"_ John couldn't stop himself from shouting his words, nor could he help the utterly befuddled tone in which they had been shouted. "I mean…" He caught himself, "Commander Doe just told me I'm in the Alpha Squad… And now you're making me Battalion Chief for Delta Company?" John truly failed to see where the punishment was in this, and that was what was terrifying him.

Ducard was quiet, as he sat opposite John on the ovular table, in Titan Station's one main meeting room. "John, we won't just be throwing you to the dogs when you get your preliminary augmentations. Like it or not, you're still children, and therefore, you must be tested before you can go through the trials and tribulations of warfare." Ducard explained, "this test is something you will receive no information about. It will be as brutal as war itself, and if you do not pass, your company will not participate in the Batarian War." A beat passed, "Alpha Squad _will_, but Delta Company will _not_."

Realization dawned on John as he figured out what Ducard was implying. He was _responsible_ for the well being of his company, if they passed this 'test', it would be because he led them to victory, but if they failed, it would be because he failed them, personally. It was a punishment, because, if they failed - if _John_ failed - the only ones that would be losing would be the members of Delta Company, unless he chose someone _from_ Delta Company to be a part of Alpha Squad, which was as likely as it was _un_likely.

"Does this come with rank?" John asked stupidly, he knew that they technically weren't enlisted in the Alliance Armed Forces, but this had been a question plaguing his mind ever since the Batarian War had begun, and it had been rumored that the II's were going to participate it.

Ducard shook his head, "not until you hit eighteen." He said, "you won't be working with our enlisted forces for this reason, and others." John nodded at this, though he couldn't help but wonder what his rank would eventually fall to, he didn't even know where the SIGMA's ranking structure lay. Did it lie in the Navy, in which case the highest NCO position he could get would be Master Chief Petty Officer? Did it lie in the Marines, in which it would be Sergeant Major? Or perhaps it lied in the Army, in which it would also be Sergeant Major?

John pushed the thoughts out of his head, Ducard had mentioned one other thing.

"Finally, your punishment." He stated, his face set firmly. John could already feel his tired, sore back begin to ache. Of _course_ they wouldn't let him get off with implied punishments, that would be too easy. He thought he noticed Ducard exhale, as if he were steeling himself for something. "We're taking them away."

John blinked, "what?" He heard the sounds of foot steps, metal on metal, armor plated boots.

"You nearly caused a war between the Earth and the Systems Alliance. You have no idea the amount of trouble you've caused, literally no idea." Said Ducard, slowly, the speed at which he was speaking seemed to speak of a considerable effort to merely force the words through his throat. "Your brash actions in rushing to the defense of _one_ girl, not _even_ a SIGMA at that, put in danger the lives of a battallion of OD3's, myself and two of _my_ squadmates, not to mention the millions that very well could have died in the war you may have caused." John heard the door open, his head whipped around and he saw two SIGMAs, fully decked out in their armor and combat gear, enter the room, they were headed straight for him. "I had to call in favors with people the likes of which you _don't_ want to get involved with, boy. So I'm going to do to you something that will stay with you for the rest of your mortal life. I'm going to take from you that which you _obviously_ cherish above all else." John was in combat mode now, but the two SIGMAs had the upper hand and had him restrained in the instant it took for him to reach down for his gun. "John, I'm telling you all of this because you won't remember it. We're taking them away. _All_ of your memories of Miranda Lawson, anything even related to her, you're losing it." John wanted to scream in protest, but one SIGMA had his armored hand over his mouth, forcing John to settle for a cold, furious glare at his teacher.

_There is no way they can do this._ Thought John, as his eyes gleamed dangerously, everyone in the room had seen this look before, it was the look of a man who wanted nothing more than to kill his way out of whatever situation he was in.

Ducard was unfazed. "You need to realize that your actions have consequences boy. You risked a war that would have broken all of Humanity, for one _girl._ She is _not_ a SIGMA, she is _not_ worth what you risked." He stated, "but you don't care, and for that reason, we're taking them all from you." John tried to break free, but his frail Human strength was nothing compared to the augmented strength of the SIGMAs holding him, one removed his hand, John took his chance. He knew that to fight would be useless, he _knew_ that they would kill him if he tried. Of course, he also knew that if they weren't lying, if they _weren't_ bluffing, they would take from him a promise he'd made, not to Miranda, but to a fellow SIGMA.

_Damn what they think... And damn them!_ John did the first thing he thought of. _Every_ model of Titan armor had a similar weakness, that being the lack of armor around the fingers, so when the hand came back, he bit it as hard as he could.

His bite couldn't possibly have broken the SIGMA's bones, or even break the SIGMA's skin suit and subsequently draw blood, but the sudden, sharp pain on the man's fingers caused him to rip his hand out of John's mouth. John took the opportunity to rip _his_ hand out of the SIGMA's grip and, with its mass increased, he slammed it into the golden face-plate of the other SIGMA, but before he could do anything else, Ducard's hand was gripped tightly around his throat, with barely enough room to breathe.

"Restrain him." Ducard said blankly, his stony face and steeled gaze directed at the red-faced teenager in his iron grip.

John, as his hands and feet were bound, squeezed as many words out of his throat as he could. _"One day."_ He wheezed, _"you'll regret this." _His threat was laced with as much hatred as seven years of involuntary military training could muster, lesser men would have backed down, perhaps even urinating themselves in the process, even Ducard was slightly surprised at the amount of raw malice the boy was showing. _"When that day comes... I'll kill you, and everyone in my way."_

Ducard showed no reaction as he tightened his grip, "that is no way to speak to your superior officer... John." He said, as he let the SIGMA Teen drop to the ground, thoroughly bound and fastened. Ducard hauled the II to his feet, and withdrew the device that man gave him. Without a word, without a gloat, without even a solitary moment of peace, he jammed the device in John's ear as he'd been instructed, and watched silently as the machine came to life, slithered in to John's cranium, and began its job.

When the fourteen year old conscript began seizing, Ducard wondered if this was what a first-class ticket directly to hell looked like.

* * *

><p>Miranda Lawson awoke with a start; her dreams had been plagued with death, failure, and possibly worst of all, her father gloating about her weaknesses. The last thing she remembered before collapsing onto the bed McGraw had provided her, was entering his ship and making sure her sister was safe. Now awake, she felt so tired, and so drowsy, that she honestly didn't know what day it was, let alone what time it was. She knew that both were irrelevant, due to the slightly accelerated feeling beneath her, where the ship's gravity well was located. The feeling of acceleration in the stomach, similar to the feeling one got when going down a long drop on a roller coaster, was common in warp-transit, which meant that they were still traveling. This confused Miranda, where in Human Territory was there a location that wasn't less than a day's warp?<p>

She knew that, currently, the outermost Colony in Alliance Space was Mindoir, but that was barely 400 Parsecs from Earth. Alliance Space in and of its entirety stretched to just over 520 parsecs, which translated to just under 1,700 light years, thirty eight light years shy of the maximum distance per-day a Warp Engine could propel a Human vessel. Though that was the limit of her own knowledge of the Warp, the Alliance knew far more about the engine's specifics, but their knowledge on the warp _itself_ was extremely limited, as all attempts to deploy Deep Space/Communications satellites or drones within the warp were met with utter silence from the machine, and every AATF Scientist that voluntarily sent his ship into an entry-point with no exit, was never heard from again. The Alliance couldn't study the Warp, but ever since Eden had first gained Human settlements, they had experimented heavily to make up for it. They knew that, in a single day, the Warp Drives could travel exactly 1,738 light years, which was near 533 parsecs. In a month, that distance was extended to 52,140 light years, or nearly sixteen thousand parsecs, and in a year, a modern-day Alliance Warp Drive could travel 634,370 light years, or over 194,500 parsecs, which was over _six times_ the length of the galaxy, from end to end. Conversely, Citadel Ships had a _much_ slower travel rate, at 12 light years per day, 360 per month, and 4,320 per year, which was approximately 4, 111, and 1,325 parsecs, respectively. Though Miranda didn't know it all by heart any more, the only reason she knew the Alliance travel rate, and their territorial limits, was because her father had posed to her a challenge, years ago: To figure out how many times a Human ship could travel the length of the Galaxy in one year, she had it at 6 times, or three round trips.

Bearing what she knew in mind, and also considering that she _had_ to have been sleeping for hours, perhaps even days, Miranda couldn't help but wonder where on earth McGraw was taking her, if they were still in transit. _Surely_ he had a much more advanced Warp Drive, so it should have taken much less time to travel, so why were they still moving?

A soft sigh from her right shook Miranda from her thoughts, Miranda rolled over to find her baby sister, softly and peacefully napping next to her. One part of her mind wondered why she'd slept so soundly through the night, if she were only a few hours old; she knew enough about children to know that they _screamed_. Why hadn't _this_ one, then? What had happened?

The thoughts quickly cut through her drowsiness, she propped herself up on her elbows and glanced around the room, the covers slipped down her still dressed form, revealing the very uniform she'd gotten from Sparta, dirty and sweaty as it was, from her excursions the previous night. As Miranda took in the details of the room around her, she noted the odds and ends, the display case with multitudes of firearms, the android standing sigil in the corner, the bundle of clothes in the other corner.

_Wait..._ Miranda looked back at the android, it was a stock model, it had no outward male or female features, and was _certainly_ not like the ones used by AI's who chose to cast off their Data Disks to live as 'SynthSapiens'. The way it was positioned, simply standing sigil, made her wonder why it was there in the first place. Did McGraw need his own android? She knew he'd made his own AI, and that may explain why there were bodies laying around, but why was it in his room?

Hearing Oriana stir to her left, Miranda's attention was stolen from the android to the infant; she couldn't help but allow a smile stretch its way across her face. She focused on Oriana, the baby's dark brown hair was matted onto her head, but was soft and thick to the touch. Her small sighs as she inhaled and exhaled in deep sleep told Miranda that the infant was blissfully unaware of the reality surrounding her, of the father she'd been rescued from, of the world she'd been born into. Oriana was currently wrapped up a small, smooth towel, which she had been found in in the lab. Miranda wanted nothing more than to remove and space the towel, and remove anything that could possibly remind her of the horrid place, but she had nothing to dress her sister in, and she knew that, even if McGraw would laugh at the opportunity and accept it graciously, neither she or her infant sister would appreciate her being dressed in any of the numerous baggy T-Shirts McGraw liked to wear; Miranda knew what 'Heavy Metal' was, but she couldn't honestly understand McGraw's fascination with it, it was just mindless _noise!_

_"__I see you are awake."_ Said a synthetic voice.

Miranda's hand flew to the pistol on the nightstand, but the firearm was suddenly enveloped in a blue-white barrier. Miranda blinked, it couldn't be what she thought it was, could it? Hardlight technology? She had only ever read theories published by the Alliance Advancement Task Force, with modern advances in energy protection, Hardlight Tech was certainly possible, but improbable, Powered Infantry Assault Armor - like that used by N7 and OD3 special forces - would need a Fusion Pack twice as powerful to power such technology, perhaps even an antimatter battery, once they existed. Miranda had only been able to recognize the barrier for what it was, because of videos she'd seen on the internet, about tests involving HL Tech. So how did McGraw have it? And where were the field generators?

_"__Hardlight Technology, as I am sure you have guessed by now."_ Said McGraw's AI, before its avatar appeared in the air above the blue-white barrier. It was orange colored, with the soft glow of Alliance Hologram tech, it had the appearance of a middle-aged, but still youthful woman wearing a scientist's overcoat, her hair in a bun, and glasses on her face, which - despite the asininity of it - drooped every now and again, causing the AI to have to 'adjust' them. _"__It was something Mister McGraw made, relatively recently, as a matter of_ _fact."_ It supplied helpfully.

"How -"

_"__It draws power from the backup fusion engines on the ship. Should the antimatter power sources need to be vented, Hardlight Tech gets its power from fusion batteries." _The AI interrupted.

"Why doesn't the Alliance have these?" Miranda rapped her knuckles on the shield; unlike Energy Shields, which had a liquid feel to them, this Hardlight Barrier felt like glass, but ringed like steel.

_"__They do. Did you not receive a smart-watch from the SIGMA Twos?"_ The AI asked, with genuine curiosity.

"No."

_"__I see."_ The AI paused, _"__I am Gladys, by the way. Nice to meet you."_

"Miranda." She paused, "why are you speaking to me with your avatar, and not through the android?" She turned around to look at the machine.

_"I have spent the last twenty three hours utilizing that body to keep the infant satiated... I felt you would rather speak to something that was not covered in various amounts of vomit and urine."_

Miranda blinked, "how long have we been asleep?"

_"You, have not moved in __twenty three hours." _Said the AI, _"she, has not moved in the last quarter of an hour."_

"Twenty three? Where is McGraw taking us? Anywhere in Human Space is within a single day's warp." Miranda mentioned.

A two second pause, _"__he wished me quote him exactly."_ A quick cut from the AI's voice to McGraw's much less elegant tone, _"__well, lady, that's true for Human territory. But we're not going to anywhere in Human territory. Problem with the colonists and explorers is that they think two-dimensionally. Space is as vast as it is infinite and directionless. So, in other words, you're not in Kansas anymore."_

"I live in Australia."

_"__You poor, poor, uncultured, _SWINE!_"_ A pause, _"__come see me in the cafeteria when you've changed your clothes. Be thankful, I had to give up a few Motorhead T-Shirts and two pairs of pants to the Synthesizers, to make you some 'acceptable' clothing..." _A pause, _"__you owe me six thousand bucks, by the way. Do you know how much vintage 20__th __century clothing costs? I'll see you in a bit."_

Miranda blinked, and only then did she notice that in the corner of the room there was a small pile of clothing. She nodded, thanked McGraw, and went to change. A quick look around the room denied her a shower, and she didn't want to ask where it was, due to the fact that she honestly didn't think McGraw would keep his eyes out of the room if she started, so she simply stripped herself of her SIGMA Fatigues and donned a non-descript uniform, black, white, and gold trimmed. She blinked and smiled despite herself, when she noticed the onesie at the bottom of the pile. Its design wasn't as bold and creatively colored as the clothes Miranda had adorned herself with, this one was a simple pale sky-blue, but it had a single picture on its chest.

_"When I was fifteen minutes old, I saw eighty men dead. Grow the hell up.__"_ Was written on the chest, Miranda _knew_ it was because of McGraw, but couldn't help but laugh at it.

She took the onesie, flipped it inside-out, and discovered another message inside it.

_"__My sister didn't like the surprise on the other side, so she ignored it."_ Another chuckle from Miranda, but this one was a bit more annoyed than the amused last one. Still, this was better than dead men, so she took it to Oriana.

It took her a few minutes to coo Oriana out of her rest, and a few more to get her dressed in the 'decent' clothing. She took Oriana in her arms and slowly rocked her back to sleep, Miranda only knew one nursery rhyme, and it would be stupid of her to even think she couldn't sing, so she lulled the baby to sleep in a few minutes, her accented voice helping greatly to soothe the infant. When Oriana was asleep, she took her with her to the cafeteria. The ship was large, but it didn't at all scream of military design, like the Frigates she had taken to and from Sparta had. Its corridors were lit by warm, light blue light, and were actually carpeted, though only lightly. There were a few paintings, pictures, and other such things lining the walls at random intervals, she stopped just before the cafeteria when she spied one of McGraw standing next to two other men.

_Edward Spokane, Christopher McGraw, Jack Harper, Summa Cum Laude, Maxima Cum Laude, and second runner up (respectively) graduates of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. _

She recognized McGraw instantly, his hand-brushed, unkempt brown hair always seemed to be shoulder-length and borderline matted down. The young McGraw had his organic arm around the man to the right of the picture, a blue-eyed brown-haired man with a tan skin-shade. He wore his cap-and-gown, though he was missing the cap; conversely, McGraw was wearing exactly what he had been complaining about 'sacrificing' mere minutes ago, a 'Motorhead' T-Shirt and a pair of jeans. The man on the left side of the picture, that was someone Miranda couldn't recognize.

_Edward Spokane…_ She stared at the man for a moment, trying to recall the name. It was frequently revealed that McGraw knew many famous, or at least recognizable, figures in Human society, he knew Leonard Trent, the Director for Augmented Affairs, Jason Whyte, the former Director for Affairs, Greg Faulken, the current Director for the Advancement Task Force, and rumor had it he even knew one or two Hollywood stars, Joanne Delhoun and Jack Sal came to mind, though Miranda wasn't sure. Edward Spokane, though, that wasn't a name she couldn't readily recognize.

Spokane had jet black hair, that contrasted heavily with his pale white skin. He seemed almost like an unhealthy ghost, next to the tanless McGraw and the tanned Harper. His dark green eyes contrasted heavily with his skin, which seemed to be made all the more paler by his choice of attire, business-casual gray clothes. He wore a thin-lipped smile, as opposed to McGraw's toothy grin and Harper's ear-to-ear smile. Something about the look in Spokane's eye, and the way his smile seemed forced onto his face, both unnerved Miranda. He looked like he had complete and utter confidence in himself, but something beneath the confidence seemed to be bubbling to life, in the lit picture screen; Miranda couldn't identify it, if she had to guess, she would assume it looked like malice, but who would Spokane be angry at? He was graduated at the top of his class, - on second glance, she realized he'd graduated _higher_ than McGraw! - next to his two best friends. Perhaps there was someone beyond the camera that he'd noticed, before the picture was recorded?

"Who is that?" Miranda thought aloud.

"My buddy, my other buddy, and a dumbass. Care to be specific?" Came McGraw's deep, but lightened voice, causing Miranda to jump, nearly waking the infant in her arms.

_"__Jesus_ McGraw, you scared me!" Miranda snapped, a pause, she shook her head and then spoke, "I was referring to Edward Spokane... Knowing you I'm rather surprised I've never heard of him."

McGraw smiled in response. "You know... You would be amazed what I don't hide from people, when I'm asked." He said, looking from Miranda to the picture, "a Council Citizen once asked me if I could make a bomb that could destroy the Citadel. I told him that the weapons on my _ship_ could do that at half their potential, and followed that up by saying that it'd only take me half a Citadel Standard Day to make such a weapon, using things I could find on the Citadel itself, with minimal effort." A pause, "I was detained, and was about to break out of my cell out of sheer boredom, before C-Sec wised up and realized _which_ Human they were looking at, but I digress. I was once asked if I was capable of converting a stellar mass the size of Luna to a massive hunk of antimatter, I assured him that there was nothing no one who lived in this galaxy could make, that could do something similar." He chuckled.

"How -"

"Someone also asked me if I could split an atom from my hotel room. I was on Sur'Kesh at the time. I told them I could _fuse_ an atom from my hotel room, and the fool challenged me to do it." A pause, "I did. I hand-delivered the reactor to the guy. Last I heard, STG took the hotel, the reactor, and the poor shmuck's _house. _Still haven't figured out how I did it.

"Hell, some guy even asked me if I'd ever had sex, and I _told_ the motherfucker!" He said, proudly, gesticulating with his hands as he spoke.

"Really?" Miranda sounded repulsed and incredulous at the same time, though still confused as to the point of the man's rantings.

"It's on Youtube, check it out. 'McGraw's still a virgin!', six billion views, and half a million women saying they'd jump me if they got the chance..." His grin faded, "for... Some... Reason..." He chuckled, "but there are a few things I hide from people. My AI's origins and personality basis, the Crucible, Shangri-La, and Edward Spokane are those things."

All of those things piqued Miranda's interest, but she felt she had to press for information on Spokane, it was what she'd asked about in the first place. "Who is he, though?"

"A husk. Once a man, still a friend, but forever a husk." McGraw got a distant look in his eye for a fraction of a second, before he shook his head. "So I guess you're wondering where we're headed." He said, motioning for her to follow him down the corridor.

Miranda's mind was abuzz, trying to figure out what McGraw's cryptic statement meant. But she did nod and respond to him, as they walked through the ship. McGraw's cane went click-click-click as he stepped through the ship, they got to the starboard observation room after a few seconds, and he opened the window. Outside was the pale blue-gray of The Warp, but suddenly - and rather anticlimactically - transitioned to Real Space. Outside, Miranda saw an awe-inspiring sight, it was an enormous space-station, aesthetically similar to the ancient station, the ISS. It was floating in the middle of the dark, blank void, and it had countless warships - flying colors Miranda didn't recognize - protecting it.

"It's called the MSS: The McGraw Space Station; but some people just call it the Moose. Unlike Kronos, the nondescript black obelisk that it is, this thing's got _class._ It's clearly separated into wings -" He began pointing them out as he mentioned them "- Living Quarters, Exercise Wing, Research Labs, Construction Wing, and the gravity well."

"Where's the Gravity Well?" Miranda looked where McGraw pointed, but couldn't see the slight distortion of the light that Alliance Gravity Generators.

"It's somewhere... I'd explain how it works to you, but I doubt I'd be able to dumb it down enough for you to understand." McGraw explained.

Miranda grinned, cheekily. "If you can't explain it simply you don't understand it well enough."

McGraw went silent, his eyes wide behind his glasses, as he slowly turned his head to look at the teen standing next to him. "Oh... You and I are going to get along _just_ fine..." He said, a grin stretching far across his face.

Several moments passed by in silence. "So… Why _are_ we here?"

"You're going to talk to someone via Quantum Entanglement. Mister Timmy doesn't want any pesky timelags, after all."

"Quantum Entanglement? That exists?"

McGraw grinned, as the ship oriented towards the station, built its momentum, and then began the process of slowing itself down. "It does _now."_ A chuckle.

Fifteen minutes passed as Miranda and McGraw waited to dock at the station. Miranda nearly fought McGraw when he suggested leaving Oriana in Gladys' care, he told her countless times to 'trust her', but she didn't want to leave the infant in the further care of an Artificial Intelligence created by _Christopher McGraw_, _especially_ since he offered up no answer as to _why_ she should trust the machine; so she ended up carrying the infant with her, through the station. The air here, unlike in McGraw's ship, had a distinctly sterile taste to it, that wasn't entirely foreign to the adult, but was bewildering to the youth, who had lived on Earth all her life, and only had taken a few journeys in the sterile environments that were spaceships.

Miranda couldn't deny the appealing aesthetics of the station, massive as it was. On the outside, it looked like an extremely outdated, archaic design, but on the inside, it looked like McGraw had simply _built_ a community in space. The two had passed by what he called the 'den', but to Miranda looked more like a park, with a small grassy field, a few palm-trees, and benches in which scientists sat and socialized, and even a café - which McGraw had stopped in to grab a doughnut, citing that 'no one in the universe can beat Noriega's doughnuts.'. The corridors were long, and the ceilings were high, but despite her knowledge to the contrary, and the sterile, almost metallic tasting air, Miranda didn't _feel_ like she was in space, with only a thin membrane of metal separating her from the outside, unforgiving void.

Minutes more passed, and finally McGraw brought her to his own room on the station.

"Just got to make a quick pit-stop." McGraw said, reaching into the inner pockets of his jacket, Miranda couldn't tell what was within. "Give me two minutes…" He entered the room, and Miranda waited a moment before she sat down against the wall.

Her last few days had been hectic, full of excitement, and _bullets._ She'd left everything she knew, she'd left _Earth,_ and she'd left anyone she'd ever called a friend, or an acquaintance. It seemed bad, but she'd also seen John again, she'd saved her sister from a life of ever-present failure, and she'd finally scored a victory against her father. She felt great pride in that, but couldn't help but feel bitter as well, she'd only proven her father _right,_ by scoring this victory, she was so perfect, her genes had given her this victory, she couldn't take credit for what her nature forced her to take. What was more, she practically hung off of John the entire time, she might have had the plan, but he executed it and made sure she made it out, even at the threat to his own life. She bit her lip, she did _not_ like that feeling, having to depend on someone else. Her father had made her perfect, and despite this she hadn't been able to do a _thing_ for herself, during the escape. Even if Cerberus turned out to be temporary, she knew she would change this about herself, even if she had to go to the Alliance.

"Alright! We leave!" Came Chris' voice, as he zipped past her, moving in the direction they had been heading in originally.

"What did you have to do?" Asked Miranda, hauling herself to her feet and catching up to McGraw.

"Updated my map."

"Map?"

"Yup." A split second, "my ship's always scanning, even now. Whenever it hit's the warp, it scans everything. Aside from the Quarians, who have an extensive map of the relay system, I've probably got the most detailed map of the Milky Way, this side of the AATF." He grinned.

"You don't lack for modesty, do you?" Miranda asked rhetorically.

"Here we are." Said McGraw, after a few minutes passed by in silence. "He's waiting for you, just stand in the circle."

"Okay…" Miranda said, entering the room McGraw designated.

It was dark inside, there was only a small, metal circle with bits of tech jutting out in a few ends. It practically screamed 'stand on me!', to the girl, so she did. A second passed, and then a holographic interface began extending from the ground, orange in color, and holding the iconic 'dust' appearance of Human hologram technology. In a second, the hologram surrounded her, and she was treated to a new sight entirely. In front of her, off in the distance, was an enormous, albeit dim, star. Surrounding her were computers, monitors, a table, and holograms galore. Sitting in front of her, smoking a cigar, was a man cast in detail-masking shadows.

"Miss Lawson. The Intuitive Man has told me much about you." Said the man, his voice deep and professional sounding, though not entirely unfriendly.

"You seriously call him that?" Was all Miranda could bring from her mind to her mouth.

"Security is a very serious thing, Miss Lawson." Said the man, "the only reason you know his name is because you know his face. And you know his face because he - by choice - actively broadcasts it. Taking attention away from me."

"And you are?" Miranda couldn't fault the man's logic, even if it was as full of details as a children's book, or, in other words, completely bland and blank, only getting its point across barely.

"You can call me The Illusive Man."

"Tim and Tim?" She noted quickly, adjusting her grip on the infant as she spoke.

"Another conscious choice."

"Were you the one I spoke to?"

"You spoke to an agent in my Cell, but I did personally respond to your plea for protection." A pause, "your father _knows,_ by the way. He says that if you don't return with Oriana, and the Data, he'll pull funding from our organization."

Miranda unconsciously backed up a step, and clenched the infant closer to her chest. "What do you plan to do?"

"That rests with you, Miss Lawson." Said The Illusive Man blankly, his cybernetic eyes staring deeply into her own.

"I want to make sure she stays safe." Miranda said, her tone clear who she was referring to.

The Illusive Man took a drag from his cigar, his glowing eyes studying Miranda intently. "I can arrange for a family to take her." He said, "but… Payment for this will not be easy."

"I'll be willing to do anything to ensure her safety." Miranda said determinedly.

"Make not promises you shall not keep." The Illusive Man advised her, with a wag of his finger, "simply put, Miranda, I want you working for me. Or, more specifically, McGraw."

"Why?" Miranda asked bluntly, she hadn't _not_ expected this, but she didn't think McGraw would request her specifically.

"McGraw knows potential when he sees it. He also knows that you've suffered an upbringing fairly similar to his. He insisted that, should you join with us, I give you to him."

"What will joining Cerberus entail?"

"A strict training and education schedule." The Illusive Man began, "not _unlike_ your time spent with John-S2-15 and the SIGMA Twos, but less strict. You won't be a soldier, but an agent. More of a focus on education _and_ training will be made, not just on performance." He explained, "as well, McGraw is - despite all appearances - a ranking member of this organization, and he does from time to time have assignments he must complete for us. Seeing as he's taken special interest in you, you will accompany him on the assignments he deems worthy."

Miranda waited, that _couldn't_ be all. It sounded so simple, she'd become an agent for Cerberus, she'd be educated by Cerberus Tutors, and she'd have to follow McGraw on his assignments. She's survived a month of the grueling SIGMA Training, so she was certain she could handle whatever Cerberus threw at her, and her father's tutors had become increasingly strict the last year, to the point where a single wrong answer was an automatic failure, so she knew Cerberus' tutors couldn't be worse than that; and McGraw was _McGraw,_ his assignments couldn't be hard at all.

"What would becoming a Cerberus Agent mean?"

"You'll be a part of McGraw's cell, and seeing as how McGraw and I work closely on many things, you will occasionally receive work from me, as well as McGraw." A pause, "your assignments, once you've grown older and have proven you can handle them, will be anything from spy assignments to wet-work assassinations."

"I'll be _killing_ people?"

"If the situation calls for it, I would expect you to." The Illusive Man stated bluntly.

Miranda's gaze faltered, as that thought entered her mind. She had fired her weapon, but she knew she hadn't actually killed anyone at the mansion. If she joined Cerberus, it would be like joining the Alliance Marines, killing someone was all but a _guarantee._

The stirring of the infant child in her arms reminded her of what she was working for. With her jaw set, she made her decision.

"I'll do it."

"Excellent." Said The Illusive Man, "McGraw knows what to do next. Oriana's foster parents should be arriving within the week." He explained, "remember, Miranda. The Alliance fights for Earth, her colonies, her interests, and her children. Cerberus, like the SIGMAs, fight for Humanity itself."

"Can I ask you a question, sir?" Miranda asked, before he could cut the communication link.

The Illusive Man paused, his hand hovering just above the dusty hologram what would have severed the link. He considered Miranda for a moment, before he lowered his hand. "You can certainly ask me your question, Miss Lawson. Whether or not I choose to answer it is what matters."

A pause, she steeled herself for this, rationalizing that the man in front of her may know more than she did. "I noticed a name, in McGraw's ship." The Illusive Man's shadowy face tilted the slightest bit to the right, Miranda assumed he'd already figured out what she was asking about. "Next to it was McGraw's and one other's. Your profile suggests that you're the second man in the picture, you don't even have to confirm it, I can tell." She couldn't tell at all: even if it were in its death throes, the man was sitting in front of a _sun,_ that made some details hard to see; but fortunately for her his answer came in the form of silence, suggesting to her she was correct, so she pressed on. "Who is Edward Spokane? Why is McGraw so secretive about him?" She couldn't help _but_ ask the question, it was something that had been plaguing her mind ever since McGraw had denied her the information.

Cerberus' leader didn't even offer her a contemplative silence, his answer came almost as soon as Miranda had finished speaking. "I'm afraid, Miss Lawson, that you are mistaken." He said, simply, almost _kindly,_ despite the cold stare gave, before the communication was cut.

* * *

><p><em>AN: _

_You guys **wanted** him punished... So, I took from him the only damn thing that could keep him human.  
>:)<em>


	16. Chapter 15

_A/N:_

_It seems you folks are split on whether or not my taking John's memories of Miranda was moral, and as such, needed. _

_Well, firstly, I say that you have to remember that this entire half of the story - John being broken down and built back up - is about bleaching the human out of a child, to turn him in to a heartless, cold, calculating, killing machine with a questionable god complex.  
>So knowing all of that, what is worse? Taking the child, conscripting him (which in and of itself implies non-consent), and training him to become a super soldier? Or taking the only <strong>recent<strong> memories said child has that could even remotely humanize him? (Especially when one considers that, at this point, John being 'human' may be more of a hindrance than a benefit.)  
><em>

_And secondly, the immorality is half of the point. The other half being the emotional bleaching. I can tell you guys right now that, as the series goes on, John will become vaguely Human, but damage is being done **now** that cannot be undone. Which is why I'm showing you guys this, his journey from child to soldier, because if I just tossed you guys in to the beginning of the Reaper Saga, when John will be at his 'peak' - so to speak - you'd all be more or less confused, and far more apt to compare him to the Master Chief. _

_So, in short: There's a method to my madness. _

_And my second point - a lot of you mentioned how many 'blank' spots will be in John's mind because of the mind wipe. Well, all I'll say to that is - in time, be it soon or later - it will all be explained. After all, the Mysterious One isn't one to leave experiments in a position to fail, especially not one as important as this._

_Now, without further ado - we're off!_

* * *

><p>Chapter 15<p>

* * *

><p><em>"They shall be my finest warriors, these men who give of themselves to me. Like clay I shall mould them, and in the furnace of war forge them. They will be of iron will and steely muscle. In great armour shall I clad them and with the mightiest guns will they be armed. They will be untouched by plague or disease, no sickness will blight them. They will have tactics, strategies and machines so that no foe can best them in battle. They are my bulwark against the Terror. They are the Defenders of Humanity. They are my Space Marines and they shall know no fear."<em>

— _**The Immortal God-Emperor of Mankind, Warhammer 40,000**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>April 6<strong>__**th**__**, 2216**_

* * *

><p>John would awaken with a start a solid twenty four hours after his impromptu procedure the day previous. All of his senses were, for reasons he couldn't explain, stuck firmly in combat-mode. These very senses and instincts had been the ones that had led him through a lifetime on Sparta, had let him know when there were SIGMAs ahead waiting to ambush them, or when their barracks were about to be raided with paint-wielding supersoldiers. But these thoughts brought an intense pain to the front of John's mind, but just as the pain - sharp and electrifying as it was - made itself known, it disappeared, leaving John with the clear mind he needed to try and flip himself off of his bed. When he tried, however, he realized he was bound to a hospital bed, with bandages covering his sore chest, head, and left arm.<p>

He sensed a presence in the room and the lack of a familiar weight on his hip, letting him know that someone was there, and he was unarmed. The person who spoke did absolutely nothing to calm John's nerves, he had experienced far crazier scenarios than this.

"Alright, John. How many times have we told you to remain situationally aware?" Demanded Joseph Ducard, as he leaned forward on the chair he'd been sitting on. He'd spent hours fabricating this story, plugging its holes and making sure loose ends were taken care of, namely the SIGMAs that had been directly involved, and could have refuted it. Ducard went with the 'cold fury' route this time, deciding it best for the situation at hand. "More than that, what have we told you about going AWOL?"

John blinked hard, some parts of his brain were still fuzzy, he tried to recall what Ducard was referring to specifically. "Constant vigilance, don't do it." He said, in order; his voice a little hoarse, had he been shouting recently?

"Then explain to me how you let a _surgeon mech_ get past you, and why you thought it was a good idea to wander the station by yourself." Ducard demanded, leaning back in his chair. "Because I am _stuck_ on this. Surgeon Mechs aren't self-aware, and you _know_ how to watch for patrol routes, so how on God's Blue Earth did you _miss it?_"

John leaned his head back on the pillow, the memories slowly coming back to him. He was on the station because he'd gone Absent WithOut Leave in Australia, which in and of itself was fuzzy, had he suffered memory damage because of the mech? After he'd spoken with _the_ John Doe, he'd taken to walking the medical station, waiting for either his punishment or his reprimand, then there was a flash of white, a sharp pain in the back of his head, and then he was here.

"How long have I been unconscious?"

"Twenty Four Hours." Ducard stated seriously, "and let's not forget you going AWOL down on the surface. I had to call in a _lot_ of _favors_ to make sure you didn't get out of the city, boy. What the hell made you think you could just walk out of the Opera House like that?" Ducard emphasized 'favors' with a shake of his voice, John knew this was a reaction to fear, but what on Earth would _Commander Ducard_ fear?

John thought hard, it was slow in coming back to him, "I apologize, sir... I thought I saw him."

John noticed how _instantly_ that had stolen the Commander's attention. "Saw _who_, John?"

"SIGMA Two-Six Thirteen, sir." The SIGMA II program's only late-arrival, of course. "I thought I saw him, I wanted to confirm it."

Ducard stared intently at the boy, he had no idea what had been put in place of the memories that the Mysterious One had stolen, but the way John spoke of II-613, it made Ducard think the boy had died. He couldn't pry too far in to this, but he had a slight reason to, and was thankful he had the foresight to bandage John's head. "You were hit hard on your head, John. What do you remember of him? Two-Six Thirteen."

"During the cross-company training, Two-Six Thirteen was attached to Delta company. He went missing during a survival training incident on while we were in a savannah near north-western Sparta, after a boroid attack." John said grimly, "I thought I saw him, sir. I _had_ to check."

_Good, a fake conscript, that means I don't have to put a kid to death._ Thought the Commander, though a new problem was posed by the kid's false memories: Validating them with the rest of Delta Company, and that The Mysterious One _already_ knew, at least on some level, that the II's were children. The former would be difficult, the latter, horrifying. Ducard had to play carefully, "I know his death weighs heavily upon you, John. But you went AWOL, I'll let you off with a warning _this_ time, but if this happens again I'll take you out of Alpha Squad, maybe even keep your rank low. Am I Understood?" He demanded.

"Understood... Sir." Said John, with a light nod.

* * *

><p>The next day, everyone was assembled in Titan Med-Station's hangar bay. Six hundred twelve child soldiers, all awaiting their briefing.<p>

_T__his is it._ Thought John-S2-15, as he stood in formation among his brothers-in-arms in the only room large enough to hold all six hundred twelve SIGMA II's. Seven full blocks of eighty SIGMA Teens, and the eighth having the remaining ones. They all were assembled for one of the most important speeches of their lives, it was the speech they would be given before their first augmentations.

John, and the entire room, went silent as Leonard Trent, the Director for Augmented Affairs, entered the room. Few knew, but the seven foot tall man actually _was_ a SIGMA, himself. He had taken the 'SIGMA Seven' but had retired years before the Second Contact War even began. The stories went that he had been among the rising faction of augmented men and women thoroughly angered by the lack of representation in parliament, and that when he'd retired from active duty had spent years working to get in to politics, eventually gaining his seat on the Board of Directors; fewer still knew that the reason he won his re-elections was because of his pull on Sparta, as the SIGMAs would be far more willing to trust his word than a 'regular' Human's. He stood upon a small platform in front of all of the SIGMA Teens, upon which there was a single podium, which had a microphone and a teleprompter, in case the man forgot what he had prepared himself. The man stood for a moment, and surveyed all of the child-soldiers in front of him. He stood tall at seven feet, had a healthy crew-cut head of black hair, and dark green eyes hidden behind thick rimmed glasses. He wore an elegant tuxedo, which seemed to make his broad, strong build seem less so, but he still retained an air of strength.

"You all have come _far."_ Said the deep-voiced, thickly southerly accented Director. "In seven years, you've all went from sniveling children, to soldiers capable of fighting and _defeating _any enemy who comes across them. With your training, you've strength enough in your six hundred to rival the millions of the Alliance Marine Corps, the single _strongest_ infantry branch in the known galaxy!" He called out, his already loud voice broadcast all over the hangar bay. "You all have spent the last seven _years_ training in ways that would break most men, under conditions that would destroy lesser beings. You've conducted and learned such subjects that would outwit _college graduates,_ and you're only at the halfway point in your journey.

"Today, you are taking the next step in your training. Two times you will be augmented in your lives, today being the first. Today you will be bio-chemically augmented. Such augmentations to improve your reflexes, your intelligence, your healing abilities. Your bones will be stronger than the bones of our Orbital Dropping Death Dealers by a factor of _six!_ Your organs tougher than wood, your lungs and blood capable of holding more oxygen. Your eyesight will be improved, your reflexes improved so greatly that you can match _AI's_ for reaction time! You'll be able to lift three times your body weights, you'll be able to snap necks and break bones with ease! With these augmentations, the _preliminary augmentations,_ you'll be stronger than most Special Forces Operatives! At _fourteen!_ You've still four years and a set of _far_ more advanced augmentations to go, before you will be truly considered SIGMA Two Operatives!

"Today you all will become augmented. If you wake up in a month, you'll join your fellow Human beings on the battlefield." Trent expected and was given the most subtle, almost undetectable outbreak of murmurs; he wasn't surprised at the lack of panic on their faces, however, it was drilled in to a SIGMA's mind from day one that they could very well die on the operating table. When they calmed down, he continued. "Your comrades' exemplary performance during the Mindoir invasion -" _everyone_ in the room knew who the man was talking about, John S2-15, known by the fighters on Mindoir 'SIGMA Two Fifteen', the very same SIGMA who had _ran away_ for several days and come back as if nothing had happened. John didn't like the popularity he was attracting, but made no attempts to suppress or exacerbate it. "- have convinced us that, after your preliminary augmentations, you will all be ready for combat roles! You are all the warriors chosen by the Mother Earth, to protect her and her people! You will be fighting for her far sooner than you expected! But you _will_ be ready!" A pause, "_why is that?"_

_"__WE ARE SIGMA!"_ Shouted the II's, all in unison, the deepening pubescent voices mixing with the yet-to-drop tones of the younger operatives, though not to the point where their speech was unintelligible. _"__WE ARE GODS!"_

_"__Damn_ straight!" Trent responded, with a firm nod.

Several minutes passed as he explained how the Augmentation Procedures would go. In a quarter of an hour, all of the SIGMA II Companies were on the march. Ten minutes after that, and all of Titan Station was filled to the brim with teenagers in their own rooms, lying down on surgical tables, and settling down for a journey that would fundamentally change them.

John S2-15 was among the last to find his room. It was a small, concise thing, with several computers surrounding a small, curvy, metal hospital bed with no blankets. There was a small glass panel on the center of the table, with lights periodically placed at regular intervals, its thinness reminded John of a Human Spine, the knowledge supported by the fact that he knew he had to lie down upon it. Before he did so, he removed his shirt, his boots, his socks and his pants; he folded them up and placed them in the corner of the room. Now clad in only his underwear and his dog-tags, John ambled onto the table. A small night-stand looking pedestal extended from the ground, John knew what he had to do. He removed his new Smart Watch, and placed it upon the pedestal, then he yanked off his dog-tags and placed them in the receptacle, and after they were scanned and acclimated, the pedestal sank back into the ground. John knew it was time, time to be changed _forever._ The child lied down and, after a single deep breath, closed his eyes. He heard the medical machinery begin whirring to life, and felt a flicker of fear in his belly.

What if something went wrong? What if he had Augmentation Rejection Syndrome? Was getting augmented painful? So many questions ran through John's mind, that he nearly jumped when he felt the first needle enter his skin, but the anesthetics in the needle immediately put him in a coma, keeping him blissfully unaware of the sensations of the machines carving into his body and changing it almost on a raw genetic level.

Hours passed by, dozens of needles and surgical tools were deposited in chemical baths to be sterilized, as the machines worked tirelessly to augment the fourteen year old child on the bed of metal. First came his bones, they were injected with chemicals, drugs, and stimulants that made them several times harder, thicker, and tougher than a bone structure of a normal Human's would be. In addition to their more efficient blood production, John's bones were being changed at a baseline level that when they were finished, outside of raw aesthetics, his bones would be unrecognizable from that of a normal Human. That process alone took hours, but it was eventually finished.

Next came his organs, which were coated with chemical, pharmaceutical, and even light radiological treatments to make them tougher, more efficient, and far more durable and protected than normal organs. Now, John's blood cells would be able to carry oxygen far more efficiently, and his lungs would be able to take in and hold it much more, giving him much healthier breathing abilities. John would be able to hold his breath for far longer, sprint for a greater distance, breathe in much thinner atmospheres. His heart and liver were both augmented, the former could withstand a far greater heart rate, and could pump much more quantities, and much more healthy blood, and the latter could filter much more through his system. His brain was changed enough so that his reflexes would be increased exponentially, now he would be able to react several times faster than even the most experienced N7 Elite, and it was much more susceptible to information, giving him an educational edge. His eyes were among the last - quite essential - things to be augmented, but they were changed successfully. Now he could see color far more sharply, giving eyesight greater than an eagle's, night vision greater than the most keen-eyed cat. The organ augmentations took nearly half the day to complete, but were done successfully with minimal, noticeable damage, his accelerated healing factor would have the scars fade in time.

Following his organs, were his muscles and blood veins. His muscles' density was increased, and they were made far more susceptible to flexing and growth. John could soon be able to lift several times his own weight, and with effort he could be able to bend metal pipes. His muscular and cardiovascular augmentations were amongst the most visible of them all, his veins were a noticeable shade of blue, and his muscles were far more developed and noticeable. He wasn't as big as a body-builder, but his development was definitely noticeable. His muscular augmentations took the rest of the day to finish, but were the most precise, more so than even the organ augmentations. Hours passed, and it was well into the next Alliance Standard Day, before they finished.

The rest of the augmentations, as precise and as long as they took, finally passed by with the coming and going of another Alliance Standard Day. John felt none of them, but even in his dreams he could tell something was being done to him. It was once all of his augmentations were finished that the last one came, his body needed to be aged in order to properly acclimated and evolved around his newly changed genetic structure. To this end, his growth hormones were stimulated, growing his body to its natural limits and beyond, his skeleton grew, his muscles densified, his body was aged in all but appearance. When his growth stimulation was finished, his augmented body would stand tall at seven feet, with the physical build of an MMA Fighter, thick muscles wrapped around his now indestructible bones, a tall structure underneath his tanned skin. Had no one had a good look at his face, still teenaged in appearance, they would easily mistake him for a decades-old veteran soldier.

Days passed after the augmentations were finished, and unbeknownst to John - or _any_ of the SIGMA II's in recovery - their own, personal sets of N7 Light-Infantry Powered Assault Armor were being delivered. The Alliance spared no expense for the SIGMA II's, though would not dedicate the resources to make them Titan Armor sets, built around their post-preliminary bodies, because the full-sized versions _alone_ cost nearly enough to make a starship, smaller versions, meant to cater to SIGMAs lacking the proper augmentations to wield a true set, would likely cost twice as much.

Fortunately for John, he would think not of any of this, as he was unconscious, being changed on the most fundamental of levels.

* * *

><p>Days turned into weeks, and as the Alliance's first Child Soldiers were recovering, the war effort in the Hegemony was slowing to a grind. Now that the awe had passed the shock, the Hegemony had finally shaken themselves into a war-status, and were finally beginning to counter Alliance forces. Battles were being fought in which there was no clear victor, in which one side triumphed over another, both won equal territory, but the Alliance's military might always turned out to be too much, and eventually even the most fortified positions fell to the might of the HumanQuarian empire.

The Nuclear Detonation on Siler had not gone unnoticed. Tensions had been increased dramatically on the Alliance/Council borders, the Citadel had been somewhat willing to forgive the incursions into Hegemony territory, they were retaliatory after all. Considerations were taken into account that war conventions for the different societies, were as different as one species was to another, but the fact remained that the Citadel thought it was the Humans who had dropped the bomb, and the Humans were desperately trying to prove that it wasn't.

As a result of the Human-Batarian war's beginning, more ships had been sent to the Council's outer borders, to sway Humans away from mounting incursions on other Council worlds. The Humans hadn't thought of doing so, but the increased naval presence was testing their patience, and as a result, they too were sending their ships to bolster their borders. The Alliance Director for Affairs had been rumored to be seriously considering a draft, but had been swayed by the Director for Defense that the Alliance Military was strong enough as-is, to defeat the Hegemony and exact revenge for the lost Human and Quarian lives. Because of this decision, the Alliance hadn't been shifted primarily to a war economy, the final percentage of revenue pushed towards military funding, be it mech production, AI Synthesis, Ship Building, Weapon Crafting, or armor construction, remained at the same ten percent total it had been for the last decade.

Ever since the Nuclear Bombing had went public, the already swelled recruiting lines had increased in size. Every able-bodied man and woman was signing up to serve, if not to serve the Alliance, and the Human and Quarian race, than to make sure that a Weapon of Mass Destruction wasn't dropped on _their_ home next. In weeks, over six hundred thousand men and women - primarily Human, but with a Quarian minority as well - had joined the multitude of Armed Services, which the Alliance was readily - and quite greedily - accepting, more than willing to beat the Batarians on a numbers game, as well as a territory, technological, and economic game as well.

Analysts from all sides had been discussing and re-iterating every bit of news that came in from the war-front. From the Citadel, arguments were made for and against assisting the Batarians, who _were_ a Citadel Species after all, and therefore were afforded the protection of the Citadel Military. Those in favor used the previous reasoning, while those against said that Humans always attacked in retaliation, even during the ongoing Alliance Rebellion, the Alliance had only begun counter-invasions when the Rebellion had attempted to sack their Relay-heavy hub-world, Elysium. The naysayers argued that it was the Hegemony's own fault that they mounted incursions on Human territory, and they should be the ones to suffer the consequences, not the Turian peace-keeping forces.

Other arguments from the Citadel's side were of the use of Nuclear Weapons. The Batarians, the Council, and many other client races blamed it on the Humans, while the Humans blamed it on the Batarians. Evidence put forth by the Humans, consisting of the types of radioactive material left in the fallout zone, the type of weapon when compared to Human Nuclear Weaponry, and other such pieces of material were the primary argument of Human innocence. Many factions were ready to believe them; further, the Human reaction to the bomb, namely, the _lack there of_, with no known Human investigations being launched in to the ordeal, begged the Council to investigate the Humans in this. Some said that the Humans instigated the Batarians, to have an excuse to 'vent their frustration', as it were, in the only way they truly knew how: Brutalizing weaker militaries. Many had argued that the Alliance didn't truly try to stomp weaker militaries into the ground, but these arguments went dead in the water when all of the Alliance's Wars were brought to light: The Second Contact War, the Mercenary Wars, and now the titular Batarian War. The only military that truly challenged the Alliance Armed Forces was the Rebellion, and that was by virtue of the fact that the Rebels had bogged down Alliance forces for years, in a brutally violent guerrilla war.

Many on the Citadel had also debated the rapidly increasing military deployments in Citadel Space. The inner-territorial fleets had been quartered in the last week and a half _alone,_ and moved to the borders, to keep Human Ships from going beyond their boundaries, and were expected to be completely _halved,_ if the Humans eventually broke down and went through on their War Economy threat. As if in response to this, the Alliance had brought its _available_ Naval forces to bear upon its borders, with rumors were flying that the Alliance was going to initiate the 'Jack Frost' protocol, and remove all relays leading to and from their core worlds, essentially 'freezing' their worlds from further assaults from the Batarians. Many reasoned that, while the Alliance would most certainly do this - Earth, Eden, Roof, and Valhalla, the Alliance's most critical Core Worlds, all already had their relays removed from the systems - the cost, both short and long run, would be crippling to their economy, which many predictors and analysts believed would suffer a huge blow, if they were actually going to go through with their plans to save _all_ of the Slaves from Hegemony Space.

The Citadel wasn't the only coalition that was arguing, however. The Humans and Quarians of the Human Systems Alliance, also had heated debates with each other. The Quarians were often far more level-headed than the Humans, due in part to the fact that the Quarians hadn't known the horrors of war in centuries, and therefore had a far more neutral point of view, than the Humans, who had been in bed with war since before the dawn of their historic ages. The Quarians were always, consistently and constantly, pushing for the Humans to be less harsh on their enemies. They felt that the Rebels shouldn't at all be tried as terrorists, but rather as misguided, indoctrinated and tricked warriors, who could be treated and cared for, and won over; the Alliance responded simply by allowing Rebels the _chance_ to surrender. They had felt that utterly destroying the mercenaries was the wrong course of action, as it could incite more violent repercussions; the Alliance responded simply with enormous weapons and massive invasions, if the Mercs were headquartered on planets, dozens of Kinetic Rods were dropped before the OD3's, SIGMAs, and then the Marines were brought in. If the Mercs were headquartered in Space Stations, they were simply incinerated in nuclear fire. Except for the few that had civilian hostages, but they were dealt with by the best of the best: Alliance SIGMA Operatives.

Many Alliance debaters had argued for a far more non-discriminatory approach to the invasion. Simply killing the offending Batarians, and leaving the slaves there to work amongst themselves. Ironically, the Quarians were the largest voice against the in_humanity_ of this idea, and it only took a few days for it to be dropped entirely. Another, far more popular argument, had simply called for large-scale civilian help with evacuating the former slaves, assisting them with recovery, and providing the Alliance with assistance wherever it was needed, be it in the war-front, or in the medical tents.

To Jorell'Sahn nar Mindoir, being sixteen Human years old, and thus only a year away from the age in which he could legally embark upon a Quarian Pilgrimage, these debates were of minor consequence. One thing many failed to mention was, in this new Quarian society, the idea of the Pilgrimage was an old and possibly even outdated one. How was one supposed to prove his worth to the _fleet,_ if there was no _fleet_ to prove his worth to? Many in the Admiralty board - which largely, now, served the same function as Earth's 'United Nations', serving as a guiding voice for the spread out but still united Quarian Race, - had been debating for years about whether or not to do away with the pilgrimage entirely. It was only in the last year did the Admiralty board finally decide that it was the best way to go with Human customs on this, at _eight_een a Quarian would be considered an adult, but 'vas' wouldn't be entered into his or her name, as being called the 'crew of' something would need to be earned. Instead, they would simply be known by their title, that is to say, their name. 'Nar' was an optional, but still usable, part of their name that still existed on their records, but 'Vas' was a title that now had to be worked for.

The problem was, the Admiralty Board had yet to decide just _what_ would be honorable enough to warrant obtaining 'Vas' in a Quarian's name. The only thing they knew, that is to say, the only thing they agreed upon, was that service in the Human Military was definitely a worthy title. Thus, a full tour of duty in the Alliance Military definitely earned 'Vas', and then the name of the ship, the colony, or the space station they worked upon. This was why so few current-generation Quarians actually had the title 'Vas' in their name, because the horror stories from veterans of Human Wars had shied a very great many away from joining even the Alliance Navy.

Jorell had only a few months until he himself would become eighteen and, by Alliance standards, an adult. He had had long discussions with his mother and, when he was present, his father, about what could earn the title in the eyes of the Admiralty Board. His father had told him the obvious, military service would earn it, but his father had been a Marine since the days of the Migrant Fleet, and he still was one, dutifully serving on a Batarian world, fighting the ones who had so harmfully injured his species' saviors.

That was one thing very few non-Quarians, and even many Humans, outside of Alliance Territory understood. The Humans were viewed with utmost _awe_ by the Quarians, Jorell included, now that he was older and finally understood what their history meant. But the Humans weren't seen as awesome, because of their prowess with war, or because of their technology, but rather because they had _saved_ the Quarians. Any other race, the crewman of the former Migrant Fleet knew, would have sacrificed the entirety of the Quarian Race, if it meant they could avoid war with the Turian Hierarchy, but the Humans had taken one look at the situation, and had responded by literally shoving themselves in front of the line of fire, using their outnumbered fleets, their numerically inferior armies, and their bull-headed tactics, to ensure one thing, that the Quarian race was no longer subjugated and exiled. Of course, Jorell knew that they were defending their Earth, but it had only taken them a moment to realize that it was because of Quarian lies that they had been attacked in the first place, but instead of acting with malice and hatred, like other races would, the Humans acted by warring on the Quarians behalf. The Quarians helped, but this war - and the Mercenary wars after it - had been largely Human affairs. It was only when the rebellion began, did the ever-grateful Quarians begin to repay their debts. For all their faults, one thing remained constant with Humans: Compassion. They had sacrificed almost everything to protect and save the Quarians, and now the Quarians had their first _true_ chance to repay these debts, by bringing the might of the slowly rebuilding Quarian Race, down upon the Batarian Hegemony.

Jorell, however, had little time to think about these things. He'd taken Psychology this year of high school, not Philosophy. It wasn't a decision he regretted, of course, Dave'Jones was an amazing teacher, very funny. The problem _was,_ though, becoming a psychologist wasn't going to do anything to help him become a Vas, a member of a Crew. His mother had suggested public service, but Jorell had no interest in Police Work, and he very much doubted the Elysium Fire Department would have use of his services. Then had come the idea of going to college and getting a job in politics, he could possibly get a job on Arcturus, and after a few years, earn 'Vas Arcturus' as his name.

They all sounded like good ideas to Jorell, but when he heard a knock on the door, his mind began wandering to other things. Things like that girl, Jessica, at the high school, he didn't know if she had been flirting with him because she liked him, because he was Quarian, or because he was reading too into things. And another thing at school, his grades in English and Kehlish had been slipping, he had to study on those now, but his Engineering project would be due in a few days, and he still had some work to do on the rover he'd designed.

Another knock on the door, it suddenly clicked that it was neither _his_ door that was being knocked upon, nor was it the time to be knocking on doors. It was 9PM Alliance Standard, 11:30 PM Solar, so who could be at the door at this hour? His mother was home, probably sleeping or watching the news, and he highly doubted any of their friends were actually here to speak to them.

Curious, Jorell slid his chair back from his desk, and before he got to his feet, he snatched his mask up. One thing Jorell implicitly enjoyed about Human society was QIS612, the immunodeficiency nanomachine colonies that were traveling through his veins this very second. They allowed him an immune system comparable in strength to a Human's, and thus, he could be without his mask whenever he wished. But to his and his mother's wishes, he rarely wore the mask outside of his home, only his mother, his father, and his best friend knew what his face truly looked like. He clicked on the mask as he opened the door to his room, Jorell lived in the loft at the top of their house, it was a big room and it offered him the privacy he'd been craving the last few years. He often did little with this privacy, but it was the fact that he had it that satisfied him.

He was halfway down the stairs when he heard wailing. It wasn't the wailing of police sirens, though, it was the wailing of a voice. A distinctly _Quarian_ voice.

_What the hell?_ Thought Jorell, using a phrase he was fond of, that he'd learned from his friend.

Jorell bounded down the stairs, his forest-green boots thumped loudly on the carpeted floor. He ripped open the door to the living room, and he sprinted out to the house's front door, what he was greeted with made him freeze. His mother was on her knees, sobbing, two Alliance Men in their dark Dress Uniforms were standing there, solemnly looking down on the sobbing Quarian as a third Alliance Man kneeled down and had his hand on her shoulder. In his hand was a box, and from this distance Jorell was able to use his mask's built in Helmet Mounted Display, to zoom in and read it.

In Kehlish lettering, it simply read, _'__In The Event That I Die, Herinan'Sahn vas Midway.'_

Jorell's mind came to a sudden and crashing halt, as it clicked what his mother was crying about. Numbly, he stepped forward, drawing the attention of the furthest Alliance Man. The furthest tapped the shoulder of the middle man, who looked from the first Human to Jorell, a sorrowful look on his face. This was one thing Jorell didn't like about Humans, it was far too easy to read them. He too collapsed next to his sobbing mother, who immediately clung to him for support, sobbing to the point that Jorell was only slightly aware that he was surprised she hadn't flooded her bright blue mask. Jorell wrapped his arm around his mother's shoulders as she sobbed, he felt so numb that he only barely heard the words coming from the foremost Human on their property.

_"__Regret to inform you…"_ Jorell's heart skipped a beat, _"__Sergeant Herinan'Sahn vas Midway…_" Jorell's blood went cold, in spite of the gratious feeling he felt in the wake of the Human getting his father's name correct in its entirety. _"__Was killed in action."_ That was what pushed Jorell over the edge too, he felt the tears streak down his face, as his mother broke into desperate sobs.

* * *

><p>"My… God." Said the Orbital Dropping Death Dealer, Sergeant Bill Sampson, when he first exited the medical tents, and then spied the rifles.<p>

It was an age-old tradition in Human society, Marines, Soldiers, any Serviceman who fought and died in the battlefield, away from home, who couldn't be conceivably brought _back_ home, would be buried under his rifle. But the nuke had incinerated thousands of Alliance Marines, and hundreds more Alliance Soldiers. The Rifles weren't simply lined up in a single row, the better word to describe what the veteran Special Forces operative saw, was a field of rifles, stuck into the ground by the barrel, with some having dog-tags hanging off of their stocks, and others simply being left unmarked.

"Fuck." Sampson thought aloud, his eyes wide and crinkled together, thoroughly enraged.

_Thousands_ of his brothers in arms, be they OD3, Marine, or Soldier, had died in seconds, and they had been the lucky ones. Many still were dying because of radiation poisoning, and their bodies were so contaminated that Sampson knew that their bodies were being incinerated. But simply burning the bodies of the servicemen wouldn't do them justice, for the Humans, they were brought into orbit by Hazmat Ships, and sent through the warp, to be incinerated by Sol. A proper ending, the soldiers who came from earth would end their journey, in that which began theirs. The Quarians, however, were sent to Keelahnan's sun, as their home system's sun wasn't _entirely_ accessible, thanks to the Geth.

"Dad… Are you okay?" Sampson turned around and saw his beautiful daughter. She had long since discarded her bio-hazard suit, now able to let her auburn hair flow freely. She had been there the day before, when the Admiral _himself_ had arrived to let the survivors of the nuke know two things, that lifted all of their spirits: They would be given medals, Purple Hearts, and leave. No one should survive a nuke, and have to go back to the battlefield, he'd told them, so now they were waiting for the shuttle to take the healthy to Earth, and the sick to one of the many medical stations orbiting it and Mars. Apparently Titan Station was being used in its entirety, which was a shame, its sheer size would be able to accommodate half of everyone here, slaves included. He had intended to ask what it was being used for, but the Admiral had simply told him that what was cooking at Titan would end up ending this war before it could get any uglier, and hadn't said anything else.

"I looked at the casualty lists. Sixty one hundred, give or take a few hundred. That's how many died in the flash. In the following half hour, five hundred more died through exposure. Twenty four hours after that, a thousand dead through side effects. Over the past few days, nine hundred more dead. Eight _thousand,_ five hundred and twenty dead, Jillian." Sampson could see, in the distance, the clouds and the sky split as an enormous Alliance Transport Vessel broke the cloud barrier and entered the atmosphere. "I don't know what we'll be doing… But the Batarians won't be making it out of this the same way they went in. There will be a permanent scar on the face of the Hegemony, and, god willing, it's going to read _Fuck You,_ signed by yours truly." He and his daughter grinned despite themselves.

"Jillian!" An Asari voice called out, "Jillian, what is that?" The Asari in question trotted up to Jillian and pointed to the rapidly approaching Alliance Vessel. "Are the Masters back, to take us from this?"

Jillian looked from the Asari to her father, who shook his head and sighed. The girl had convinced him to try and do what he was about to do a few days previous, even though it could cost him far more than his job in the long and short run. But he'd seen the flicker of hope in his child's eyes, and in the end couldn't say no."That's what we call a Colony Ship." Sampson supplied, "pretty much, it's an armed version of the Public Transport Ships the colonists use to settle worlds. It had a carrying capacity of over a million people, but can serve up to two, if the situation called for it."

"It is enormous... I never knew the Masters could make things so big!" The Asari cooed, as she watched the enormous, fifteen hundred meter long vessel hurtle through the air.

"You should see a Dreadnought, lady." Sampson said, without thinking.

"Dad…" Jillian reminded the Dealer, with a stern look.

Saira blinked, innocently, as she gazed from the colony ship to the Human. "The Masters changed their warships, too?" Saira asked, blissfully unaware of her friend's words.

Bill chuckled, "_Oh _no, not the Masters... You see, the Masters' Dreadnoughts are big ships, I don't know what they look like, to be honest, but they _are_ big. But ours, they're _guns._" Sampson said, "Two and a half kilometer long _guns." _

The Asari looked bewildered, "truly? How is that possible?"

"Because we're _Human._ We're better at... Most everything." The snide part of him wanted to add 'except peace' to the end of his statement.

"Dad, I think you've frightened her enough." Jillian stated, firmly.

"But if your ships are so large, they would need -_"_ Saira pushed.

"Lit-" A stern look from Jillian, "miss Saira, if there's anything I've learned raising my daughter, its that when she's said enough is enough, it's _enough."_ He made a zipping motion with his fingers, above his lips. "I might be able to beat a Batarian, unarmed, with one arm only being held together by my armor, the other barely functioning, and one leg broken, but even if I was a _SIGMA,_ I'm pretty sure my daughter could tear me apart." A pause, "so I think we'll talk about these things later, when we get to Earth."

This perked Saira up immensely, "truly? The Masters are sending us to the Earth?" She asked, the first flicker of _hope_ entering her voice in centuries.

"That ship's taking the wounded warriors to the Earth Medical Stations. We've got a few other, smaller colony ships, coming in for the former slaves. I've... Got it cleared with a few friends who owe me favors, you can come with me." Bill explained.

Saira nodded happily, but then paused, "Are... You are sure?"

"Saira." Jillian forced the alien to look at her. "We're _sure, _now calm down." She said, with a light grin.

The mood instantly changed from light, to somber, and Bill, not wanting their trip home to begin like this, changed the subject. "Jill, when was the last time you had some good-ol'-fashioned New York Pizza?"

Jillian smiled as she immediately predicted what her father was doing. "A few years, Dad."

"And what about you, Saira?"

"What is Good-Ol'-Fashioned New York Pizza?" Saira intoned.

Bill and Jillian exchanged glances, and then looked to Saira.

"Lady, we have got a _lot_ to teach you." Bill said, with a smile, as the ship came to a halt a few hundred meters northwest of their camp, and shuttles began pouring out of it.


	17. -Intermission-

Chapter ()

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><p><em>Intermission<em>

_(N.): An interval between parts of a play, movie, or concert._

* * *

><p>In the vast darkness of space, few could reasonably count for one single, simple, and yet undeniably complex fact: <em>anything<em> could happen, at any moment. Space had been once called the 'Final Frontier', it was for all intents and purposes the ultimate unknown. No known living being understood space because its vastness was beyond the comprehension of most - if not, all - organic and inorganic minds. It is with this knowledge that fate, ever the cruel mistress, reminds all species that Space, in its vastness, in its emptiness, can throw massive curve-balls.

Massive, in this instance, being defined as a six hundred twelve kilometer wide asteroid hurtling through space at a constant velocity of over fifty nine thousand meters per second. This massive rock composed of unequal parts iron, stone and other such precious metals was what had been the subject of intense scrutiny, study and debate upon the two lone planets known to contain and support life. All space travel between the two planets in the binary star system had been grounded almost immediately after the massive asteroid had been discovered, and almost all eyes and all farseers were pointed to the sky as the indigenous peoples of planet Saltor desperately hoped and prayed that the massive rock would not slam into either of their homes. Fortunately for the eight foot tall denizens of the Saltorian Empire, they quickly learned that the massive asteroid would sail harmlessly past both Saltor and their colony-world, Hoomanisire. They had received a splendid celestial shower because of the asteroid's passing, and another crisis had been averted.

It was these thoughts and more that ran through Jorban Sal'Naa's mind as he rode in the back of his Gun-Brothers' open-roofed vehicle. The BattleVector was silently staring at the sky above him as the vehicle drove across the cold lands of the homeworld, of all the constellations and star patterns, his eyes right now rested upon one in particular, the constellation his people called the 'Hoomanisire's Eye', a circular gathering of several stars with one other in the center, its own brightness seeming to almost feed off of the ones around it. Jorban's breath made small, frosty clouds in the air as he exhaled, his mind simply wandering from thought to thought, every now and again the familiar flicker of violence gracing his mind, before he had to almost physically crush it back down to the depths from which it came. He had been a BattleVector for centuries, now, respect and patience had been all but grafted on to his soul, yet still his primal side called to him, just as it called to his gun-brothers. It was the ability to understand this primal desire for death and violence, and the ability to suppress it that separated the Battle Vectors from the Tyyrahn, the undisciplined counterpart to the BattleVectors.

Thinking of the Tyyrahn caused a scowl to briefly flicker across Jorban's elongated face, as he huffed and shifted his gaze to another section of the black, starry sky, grateful for the white-noise of the engine and the jostling of the rode beneath him, as the vehicle passed over it. The Tyyrahn were the only other military force the BattleVectors _allowed_ to exist within the two planet, multiple moon Empire, and it was only because one out of every one hundred men to be chosen to undertake the Trials actually succeeded. In the military Hierarchy of the Saltorians, no one was better than the BattleVectors, and there was a reason for it.

Yet, as Jorban's thoughts flitted from subject to subject, he couldn't help but feel an itch beneath his scales, it was as if his very instincts were telling him that something that should happen has yet to. He tried time and time again to describe this feeling, this itch, to try to understand it, to comprehend it, he had had dreams where there was nothing except for the feeling, and yet there was nothing he could do to stop it, nothing he did, no books he consulted, no priests he confided in, no Gun-Brothers he spoke to, nothing at all did anything to help his understanding of this _feeling. _

Jorban groaned and shut his eyes, scratching his snout as he tried to distract himself from the itch.

"So, Heris." He heard one of his Gun-Brothers speak over the roar of the engine and the sound of the vehicle running over the ground, drawing his thoughts from the internal to the external. "I heard you were granted another mate... Is this your second one?" The driver of the vehicle grinned at their youngest member.

Heris, the warrior in question, sighed deeply, he knew what his Gun-Brother was doing, and played along. "Yes, Syn, I was given my second mate." He said, an annoyed tone blanketing his words.

"You are... What, two hundred?" Syn laughed, taking his eyes off the road so he could turn around and look to Jorban, who had returned to staring at the sky. "Jorban -" He reached back and shoved the man lightly on the shoulder, "- brother, many mates did you have when you were Heris' age?"

"Three." Jorban answered, his voice considerably deeper than Heris', but not as deep as Syn's deep baritone.

"Yes -" Syn turned back around and settled back in his seat, turning the wheel as they continued their patrol. "- three wives he had at your very age. Heris, you must pick up your pace, your Gun-Brothers are starting to think things about you." He grinned maliciously, his dark brown eyes flitting from the dark road to Heris, who was eyeing the centuries-old BattleVector curiously.

"What things?" Heris inquired.

"Oh..." Syn continued, gesticulating with his head as he made eye contact with Jorban through the rear-view mirrors, Jorban, grinning evilly, knew what the man was doing. "That you are only fit enough for one woman." He shouted loudly, roaring with laughter as Heris sputtered, trying in vain to create a response.

_"I am not!"_ Roared Heris over the dull roar of the engine and his Gun-Brothers' laughter. "I just -" He didn't finish his thoughts, because just as he began speaking the clouds above sky lit up bright orange.

Syn slammed on the brakes, causing the vehicle to come to a screeching halt, sending dirt and gravel flying into the air. All three BattleVectors' eyes were glued to the sky, when, just as suddenly as the sky turned orange, a massive ball of fire flew through the clouds, heading straight to the grounds to the north. The meteor flew through the sky for several moments before it slammed into the ground, the thunderclap being audible even from their distance.

Jorban, who had stood up grabbed his turret at the sign of trouble, leaned down and slapped Syn's shoulder. _"Step on it!"_ He ordered loudly, _"we need to know what it is!"_ That had been the only words the BattleVector had needed, and just a moment later he slammed his boot on the gas pedal, and they hurtled off to the North.

As they roared to the north, the radio flared to life, dozens of BattleVectors were trying to locate the meteor's crash-zone, trying to coordinate with the Tyyrahn Air to check for damages, and get drones in the area to search for insurrectionists. They _would_ be as audacious as to try and drag a meteor out of its natural orbit, on the off chance that it would strike a critical target, or do any damage in general. Jorban knew the Insurrectionists like he knew how to disassemble and clean an Energy Lance, they were a disorganized faction that simply wanted to go back to the way things were during the Dark Age, when the entire world was without govern and it was every being for itself. They craved the lawlessness and the death of tens of thousands of years ago as if it were a fond memory of the decade previous.

_"This is Lanceman Jorban Sal'Naa, my Gun-Brothers and I are the closest to the fallen object."_ He called to the Command Base, _"do we know what to expect?" _

The deep voice of Praetor Sal'Shei came through. _"We do not, Lancemen Sal'Naa. Closest we were able to discern before its impact was that it was not a natural formation."_

Syn piped in at this, _"so we are dealing with a downed satellite?"_ He shouted into the radio, veering right as they crossed from the empty grassy planes into the stone quarries surrounding north-western Innsua.

There were several moments of audible deliberation on the other end of the radio, leading Jorban to know almost instantly that there was something more to this than they had first thought, only in times of dire war did it take the operators more than a few seconds to respond to radio queries, and the last major war had only been a few months ago. _"Negative, we have reason to believe that we are **not** dealing with a downed Void-Watcher."_ Said the radio operator, _"however we need you to get to ground zero immediately and secure the area before the local insurrection gets their claws on it, this is an order coming directly from the Praetorian."_ Said the operator.

Syn managed to look back at Jorban, both of them with shock evident in their eyes, _"understood, we are on the move."_ He called out, before they cut the radio.

Their vehicle roared through the quarry for another two minutes, before they had to hit the breaks, they had reached ground zero, the impact point had created a massive crater in the ground, though thankfully it didn't rip a huge chunk out of the quarry, it was all still relatively level. Dust and debris hung thick in the air, Jorban, his arm still hanging over the turret, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose.

"Can you smell it, Brother?" Heris inquired, as he too inhaled deeply. "It smells of fire to the north..." The winds blew in from the south as he spoke, parting some of the debris-filled air but not all of it. "And... Gun oil to the south." He turned in the direction, squinting his eyes.

"What do you see?" Jorban inquired, Heris was their Senseer, he was trained to be able to track any prey and see any foe. Even when compared to most BattleVectors, who were more in tune with their senses than Tyyrahns and other Saltorians, Senseers were more in tune with their natural senses, able to smell trails days old, see the slightest discrepencies in the land, hear the lowest whispers in the night. No ordinary man could become a Senseer, the same way no ordinary man could become a BattleVector.

"Heat... A lot of it." Said Heris, "I do not believe they are allies."

Syn nodded, his dark green face set in determination as he reached through the vehicle and switched on its radio. "Command Base, this is Lanceman Syn Sal'Deas, we have arrived at the impact zone. Be advised, we have reason to believe Insurrectionists are hot on our tails. When can we expect reinforcements?"

_"Lancemen Sal'Deas, your answer is as follows: A BattleVector team is currently en route to your position but is traveling by vehicle and shall not arrive for one half hour at the earliest."_ Came the radio operator almost instantly after Syn finished speaking. _"In the meantime, we are making preparations for a HellFire Cannon to be delivered to your area -"_

"Jorban, they are coming... They are using the trees as cover." Came Heris, as he reached beneath his seat and retrieved his Energy Lance.

_"- it will arrive in seventeen minutes, confirm."_

_"Confirmed. Seventeen minutes."_ Syn nodded and retrieved his own energy-lance, it was intentionally designed to appear like the smooth-bore weapons of ages past, though the primary difference being the thinner barrel and the battery pack on its stock. _"Lancemen Sal'Deas farewell."_ He said, before clicking off the radio as Jorban activated his turret's battery and removed the safety, before he disconnected it from the vehicle, ammunition case, backup battery box and all, his own Energy Lance having been strapped to his back.

The three Saltorian BattleVectors exited their vehicles, and with a spread of two arms lengths, stood side by side and faced the approaching hordes of Insurrectionists. Jorban looked to his Gun-Brothers, they each wore uniforms similar to him, thin clothed battle dress uniforms with a leafy camouflage patterns, with thick, armored vests on their chests, the pouches on these vests contained extra battery cells for their Energy Lances, and magazines for their side-weapons. Jorban nodded to Syn, who turned and nodded to Heris, the three placed their helmets on their heads and prepared their weapons, the latter two hefting their Energy Lances to bear, and Jorban lifting his turret to face its enemies. His turret was a simple, dual-barreled death machine, one barrel utilized the turret's energy cell so as to fire its deadly energy beams, the other barrel firing massive projectiles at blistering rates. Together, it made for a deadly weapon, and it was no small feat that Jorban was able to wield it off of its stand like he was.

"Jorban, Syn, look." Heris pointed to the southeastern sky, there, flying gracefully was a Bizhnal.

All three BattleVectors lowered their weapons, clenched their fists over their hearts, and bowed their heads in respect, before they looked back to the advancing vehicles, which were rapidly crossing the border from the forest to the quarry. "The Hoomanisire has blessed our mission, Brothers." Said Jorban, as he brought his machine gun to bear, "let us not perish this day." And with those words he pulled the trigger on his machine gun, its energy beam cut through the air in the blink of an eye and slammed into an Insurrectionist vehicle, within seconds the beam had cut through its chrome exterior and burnt its engine, only briefly slowed before it cut straight through to the other end of the vehicle. The heat was so intense that when some of the slagged metal made contact with the vehicle's leaking gas, it detonated in a fiery explosion, lighting up the night.

Their enemies began shouting in fear and in terror, but began firing their ballistic weapons regardless, the BattleVectors didn't so much as flinch. Jorban kept the trigger for his energy turret held for another ten seconds before the heat-sinks forcibly extended from the weapon's barrel, without missing a beat, he pulled the trigger for the ballistic turret, the air around them being overwhelmed by the deafening roar of the BattleVector's heavy machine gun, its flashes briefly lighting up the dark gray rocky ground beneath them to an almost paper white, the rounds themselves cutting through the dusty air like small fire bolts. The vehicles came ever closer, their own ballistic turrets began lighting up the night, but the three BattleVectors stood firm, not giving an inch, not succumbing to fear, each man in the three-man team had a target and he focused his fire on that target until it exploded. Syn and Heris fired their rifles in short, five second bursts to avoid overheating, and Jorban switched from the trigger for his Ballistic Turret to his Energy Turret with instinctual ease, the three BattleVectors were holding off an army of Insurrectionists.

"There are more of them, tonight!" Heris called over the hail of gunfire, not even flinching as he felt a round drag across his right arm. "When must we move?"

_"Wait six seconds!"_ Jorban called out over the thunderous barking of his turret, and the explosions of the vehicles, he felt a round drag across his left arm and one slam into his right foot, but he bit through the pain, he would heal soon. As he had instructed, in six seconds the vehicles had finally reached them, and the BattleVectors moved with blistering speed. The Vehicles and their drivers were almost instantly dazed, unable to adapt quickly enough to the BattleVectors as they sprinted to the heart of the enemy horde. This was what the BattleVectors excelled at, Zealous, Unpredictable, _Wild_ strategies backed up by unbeatable skill and reliable, powerful weaponry.

The three kept their strict two-arms length spread, Syn fired to their left, Heris to their right, Jorban cleared the path to their center, their energy beams and Jorban's massive ballistic rounds making short work of the vehicles and their occupants. The primary difference between Insurrectionist vehicles and those utilized by the Tyyrahn and the BattleVectors was a severe lack of armor plating, BattleVector vehicles utilized armor that could withstand energy blasts and bullets up to anti-material grade, whereas the Insurrectionists had to make do with civilian trucks and utility vehicles.

_"Syn, drop Axite in ten paces! That will be our crater!"_ Jorban instructed, he was their tactician, BattleVector Tacticians had been the primary driving force for many of the victories in the Dreg War, before the Light of the Hoomanisire had entered the equation, at least, they were legendary for their skill, there were no Tacticians that could out think a BattleVector.

_"Axite dropping!"_ Syn responded, before he reached into his vest and pulled out a small crystalline gem with a golden center, and dropped it to the ground.

_"Twenty paces we halt!"_ Jorban roared, as his Ballistic Turret clicked on empty. It was with a practiced precision that he ripped out the turret's magazine box, though he didn't replace it, he didn't have one to replace it _with._ The energy turret, on the other hand, still had several dozen more bursts before its cell would be dry, and when the three halted twenty paces away from the small, seemingly harmless gem, he had already been firing its superheated beam of raw energy for a three second burst. _"Backs together!"_ They took two paces backwards and just like that, as if they had planned the maneuver that morning, they three were back to back, there wasn't any direction they couldn't cover, and there wasn't any way the Insurrectionists could get behind them.

The three BattleVectors blasted away at the confused Insurrectionists, their energy beams tearing through the enemy vehicles and their sorry excuse for armor. BatteVector Body Armor was much like their vehicular armor, it couldn't protect him indefinitely, but it could take a few direct hits from an Energy Lance and still protect them, whereas the rebels had to make due with scrap metal and bundled up links of cloth. The difference, technologically, from the BattleVectors and the Insurrectionists was as clear as the difference between the Hoomanisire and the Dellian.

Jorban took some flak as the battle raged, the Insurrectionists had finally realized that it was high time to take cover and pray to the god they were actively angering that they could be saved, he felt several rounds hit his stomach, arms and leg, he had only audibly grunted when one had dragged through his tail, even the most intense training on Saltor couldn't stop a wound in the tail from hurting. But before the three could have started having _real_ fun, they heard a call over their ear pieces.

_"BattleVectors, the HellFire Cannon is inbound!"_

Jorban didn't miss a beat, _"detonate the Axite now!"_ Syn reacted almost instantaneously, slapping the right side of his vest. Twenty paces from their blood-covered standing point, the small gem had an even smaller electric shock run straight through it to its golden core, and without any more delay, the gem detonated in a massive, fiery explosion that incinerated anyone nearby.

_"MOVE!"_ Jorban roared as he heard the engines of a CarrierPlane. The loud, booming noises of an aerial vessel designed to haul massive, heavy pieces of machinery, such as the BattleVector HellFire Cannon.

The three leaped into their crater just as the Carrier's cargo-doors opened wide, and out slid a massive machine, large as a two-story home, it fell through the air, hurtling towards the ground, legs-first. It had three legs, each extended to hit the ground first and absorb the shock of impact. Aside from its legs, there were only two other notable features, those being its most prominent, a _massive_ cannon, as big around as Jorban's arm and longer than three Saltorians standing atop each other. The other feature was its ammunition box, it was twice as big as any LandBreaker and it carried enough rounds to supply an entire moon with ten magazines and still have rounds to spare. This was the BattleVector HellFire Cannon, designed to look like a horned beast, it was the second most powerful ultra-heavy weapon the Saltorians had ever created, not counting their atomic weaponry, it had been this weapon that had been the reason the BattleVectors hadn't lost Innsua City - the city that spanned half a continent - to the Dregs, two millennia ago. This weapon, this machine of war, this device of death, was capable of firing thousands of rounds every second, hundreds of thousands every minute, millions every hour, it was designed to empty a battlefield, its image struck fear even into the most hardened of warriors, because when the HellFire cannon graced the battlefield, rivers of red would wash away the bodies of the dead.

The massive death machine dropped like a meteor through the air, before slamming into the ground with a loud, thunderous crash, the ground itself yielded to this awesome machine of death as it bucked and heaved. The battlefield went silent for just two seconds, before the wonderfully beautiful sound of thousands upon thousands of rounds every second began thundering, screaming, roaring, like a wild, victorious predator beast, straight from the HellFire Cannon's massive barrel. When the gunfire erupted the three BattleVectors had acted on instinct and had moved to cover not their own heads, but the heads of their brother, each one willing to be torn to a bloody pulp so as to protect their Gun-Brother; they felt the heat of the HellFire as the enormous machine began rotating back and forth, clearing everything in a one hundred and eighty degree radius. Nothing escaped the death machine's gaze, not the Insurrectionists desperately fleeing its wrath, not the forest in the distance, not the debris still desperately clinging to the air, anything that wasn't currently cowering on the ground was being liquefied by raw firepower.

For fifteen seconds the three BattleVectors lay in their crater as the HellFire Cannon cleaned the battlefield, they felt the blood from their wounds slowly oozing out, but they took not the time to even twitch in the direction of their medical supplies, lest they anger the showers of gunfire above them, and bring their wrath down upon their heads. After fifteen seconds, the gunfire ceased just as suddenly as it began, the BattleVectors waited another five seconds before they released their grips on each others' heads and slowly stood up, Syn and Heris' Energy Lances and Jorban's turret all raised and ready to fire. The battlefield was clear, Jorban noticed, not a single vehicle had remained unexploded and not a single man was still capable of fighting; Jorban looked to the south and saw that the forest the Insurrectionists had sprouted from had been partially _de_forested, with dozens of trees being torn apart and laying on their sides thanks to the gunfire. Jorban looked to the north and saw the HellFire Cannon, the heat of its glowing red barrel was radiating off of its fearsome form, had the weapon fired that kind of ammunition, there would have been a literal _pile_ of spent bullet casings next to it, that would have been as tall as Jorban himself; fortunately for it, it fired caseless ammunition, this allowed it to store more shells and have a faster rate of fire. The death machine itself looked as fearsome as the myriad horned beasts it was imitating, its three legs digging into the ground, its barrel slowly gyrating back and forth, its ammunition box no doubt considerably lighter than when it had landed, though Jorban knew it wasn't empty, HellFire Cannons were designed to have ammunition enough to fire non stop for five minutes.

One question hung in Jorban's mind, however, as he and his Gun-Brothers slowly extricated themselves from the crater they had made shelter in. Powerful as HellFire cannons were, they weren't exactly a common resource, there were only one thousand of them in existence, they were just too costly to make and maintain. Deploying a HellFire Cannon was tantamount to the Praetorian stating to all that this was a mission he would not let fail, the only thing that would have surprised Jorban more would have been if they had maneuvered a Fluid Satellite over their position. That the Praetorian had deployed the second most powerful non-nuclear weapon in the BattleVectors' arsenal meant that this mission was far, _far_ more important than they had originally believed.

_But... What kind of void-watcher crash would necessitate a HellFire cannon?_ Thought Jorban, as he raised his clawed hand and gestured in the direction of the HellFire cannon, they had to first check it for damage and then make their way to ground zero.

Fortunately, the dust was settling, the air was clearing. The night was still pitch black, but their vision adapted quickly.

"Heris." Jorban insisted.

"Nothing capable of fighting us." Said the Senseer, "I can smell a few men still bleeding, but only one of them could fire a rifle at us."

"How are your injuries, Brothers?" Syn asked, as they three moved north, keeping a strict two-arm spread as they strode, weapons ready, Jorban had had to dispose of his turret, and was now wielding his Energy Lance.

"I took a round in the tail." Jorban reached down, and felt that the injury was nearer the center of the tail than the base, he grunted as he felt the bullet hole. "And one in the chest." The others he'd taken were minor at worst, even his injured legs would heal quickly enough.

"Your heart?"

"It is fine, they missed it." Though he knew that the Priests would have to check for shrapnel in his wounded areas, neglect was one of the few ways 'minor' injuries could have the honor of stealing the life of a BattleVectors.

"Heris?" Syn inquired.

"My ears are ringing like the cries of the abandoned." Heris complained, he briefly touched his left ear and his hand came away bloody. "I think I shall be placed into a recovery absence, if they do not stop." There were very few places on any Saltorian's body that did not heal as fast as others, their tails, their ears, their genitals and their eyes were some of the places that simply did _not_ heal fast, it took months for their bodies to dedicate the time and energy to healing their extremities. Many believed that it was a sign from the gods, that they had once tried to teach their ancestors to protect their important parts, for if they did not, they would suffer. Many biologists begged to differ, though few _truly_ believed otherwise. "And I think some insects crawled into my boots."

"Oh, pray to the Hoomanisire, Heris has some bugs in his boots." Droned Syn, though they all were grinning as they neared the HellFire Cannon. "And his ears hurt, so he'll have to spend a few weeks with his wives... I hope your new mate doesn't let you hear the end of it." Grunted the BattleVector.

"Heris, check the cannon, we shall watch for survivors." Jorban instructed, to the nod of their Senseer, "what of you, Syn? How are your injuries?" He inquired of his Gun-Brother.

"Few, Brother." Said Syn with finality, "I feel something lodged in my torak, but a Priest can remove it simply enough." He placed his hand on his hip, pressing hard, likely to feel for the bullet lodged within his body. "Aside from that, I simply have new scars to catalog."

Jorban grinned maliciously, "be lucky it hit your torak and not your cock." He said, lifting his rifle.

Syn shuddered at the image, but clacked the barrel of his rifle with that of his Gun-Brother all the same. "_Culus_." He cursed.

"We're all clear here, Brothers!" They heard Heris call out, "its casing took a beating from the drop but the Studiers can fix it quickly enough." He stepped down from the ladder leading into the machine's guts. "Shall we check this object, then?" He nodded in the direction of the impact.

"Certainly, let us -" They three had heard the noise just as the dying man croaked out his curse. They looked down to the man, who had almost literally been cut in half by the HellFire, his organs and a vast amount of his blood were trailing out of his midsection, he was dead, he just didn't know it yet. Jorban took the initiative, stealing the trembling pistol from the Insurrectionist and tossing it away, before he stowed his Lance on his back and raised his fist. With barely a thought his claws extended, and with a grunt, he slashed the poor soul's throat, Jorban felt his second finger drag on the man's spinal cord, but he hadn't meant to break it, he would have hit him far harder if he'd desired to do so. The man died just a few moments later, gurgling as his failing breath caught in his throat. "move."

They began walking, and after the adrenaline from the fight finally cut out and their hearts began slowing down to normal levels, Jorban heard Syn yawn and stretch his arms, he could see the man's emerald green scales reflect the light of Saltor's moons, the BattleVector yawned deeply and loudly, baring his sharp teeth as he did. "Why must they always fight?" He wondered, stealing a glance behind them, "they never win."

"They have not yet learned how not to fight." Jorban answered, he too felt lethargy pulling at his scales, they had been patrolling for three days straight, during which he had gotten a cumulative six minutes of sleep, he yearned to go home, drink wine and rest his limbs, perhaps his First Mate would feel generous and would treat him to some Porken Bread when he awoke. He could feel his mouth begin to water in anticipation of the silky, spicy bread, there was nothing in the two worlds and many moons, that could compare, and he would even be so audacious to say that nothing in the Promised Land could compare either, to Sylla's Porken Bread.

"And we _have?"_ Chuckled Heris, "even in the cities, the very places we fight to keep away from war, crime and murder run rampant, the Guard, even with their numbers, cannot pacify our nature." He said, "it is no wonder the Hoomanisire never returned to us."

Jorban's head whipped to his right, _"that's blasphemy!"_ He roared, his voice echoing in the distance.

"It is the _truth!"_ Heris argued calmly, "you cannot say you do not feel the disappointment of the gods, the shaking of their heads with each cannon we fire, each bomb we drop."

"The Hoomanisire is not _gone,_ Heris Hoom'Sha." Jorban stated firmly, "I..." They slowed down, they had reached the edge of the crater, there was smoke coming from the center, something was ablaze. Jorban looked within, and blinked slowly when he caught sight of the object. "I feel his presence right now." He stated, as they stared at the object. It _was_ an object, not a simple rock from space or even a fallen void-watcher, this thing held not a single design convention in similarity with BattleVectorian Ground and Void-Watchers. This pod-shaped object, with its metallic, silver glass-coated wings didn't even share similarities to the gifts of the Hoomanisire. "And he is telling me to pray." Though to whom, and for what, he did not know.

* * *

><p>It was with heavy feet, tired scales and sagging eyes that Jorban Sal'Naa finally made it home. As a BattleVector, he himself had little need for a personal vehicle, and though his wives certainly did, he personally enjoyed the looks on their faces when he came home unexpected. He turned and gave the public-transport driver a nod and an arm-clasp, a sign of greeting and farewell, before he stepped out of the car. It had been six days since the battle for what was quickly becoming called the 'E-Zone', and though Jorban had had every opportunity <em>to<em> sleep, he hadn't been able to take any of them, Priests of every shape and caliber had operated on his tail and chest, Hoomanisirian Agents of every clearance level had questioned him about what he'd seen, before during and after the battle, and even a few fellow BattleVectors had all but demanded he show them his new scars and tell them the tales behind them.

Slowly, with one hand in his jacket pocket and the other slung over his shoulder, his go-bag hanging off of it, he trekked down the street. He had chosen this area of Saltor to live specifically because of its history, during the Dreg War it had been the first place to be cleansed by the Flames of the Hoomanisire, a two megaton piece of ordinance that had killed hundreds of thousands of them, so long ago. This area had long since been washed of the Light and rebuilt and populated, and though it may not be the _safest_ place on the Innsuan continent, it had been the place he had looked at from afar during his thuggish days before joining the BattleVectors, so many centuries ago.

The houses here were designed to be functional, they were two story box-shaped abodes made of stone bases and plaster and wood shells, giving it the strength to withstand the elements but the elegance of modern materials. Many homes these days had their main levels on the ground, but Jorban had selected his - a blue-colored house at the end of a short street - because it had its main level on the second story, it gave him and his more casual-minded mate a wonderful view during lightning and razor storms.

Jorban walked down the silent side-street, enjoying the silence of the late night. A sound reached his ear, however, and with reflexes forged by instinct, honed by the Trials, and hardened through experience, his pistol was in his hand and pointed at the noise in an instant. He continued walking, though the pistol never left the direction of the noise; eventually, the perpetrator revealed itself, it was a Ziln, one of the few _genetically_ friendly creatures to populate Saltor. Jorban holstered his weapon and crouched to his knees, letting his bag touch the ground so he could use both hands. It wasn't a rare occurance for a predator to wander into the suburban neighborhoods, but few - if any - suburbs had _no_ men or women who knew not how to fight, and it had been established for eons - the cities were for Saltorians, _they_ were the ones blessed by the Hoomanisire, the forests were for the animals, to encroach on civilized land was to court death, or imprisonment in a wildlife preserve.

Fortunately, Ziln were genetically friendly to Saltorians. They had four legs and skin like stone, with teeth sharper than knives and strength to match, but despite it all, something about them made them as friendly as, well, _Ziln._ So few and far between were reports of Ziln-caused Saltorian deaths, and those were usually idiot young-lings who threatened Ziln mates and young, an angry Ziln was almost as dangerous as a Dreg Drone. A happy, friendly Ziln, however, would show no malice and no anger to any, and though they tended to roam, they always returned to their owners in the end.

"Hello, little one." Said Jorban, as the Ziln approached him. The Ziln bowed its head, signifying it was willing to be touched by the Blessed Race, Jorban smiled despite himself and reached forward, dragging his hand across its stony head. "Are you out on a hunt?" He wondered, as its head pressed into his hand, its eyes closed in silent pleasure. "Perhaps you are simply enjoying the cool night." He said, his own words causing a slight fog in the air. It let the warrior pet him for a few silent moments before it grew disinterested, and with it patted his hand with its head, before it bowed again and left. Jorban watched it disappear into the darkness for a few moments, it only ever reappeared when it went into the light of a street lamp. Ziln were devastatingly smart creatures, Scriptures had dictated that even the _Hoomanisire_ had admired them.

With a deep sigh, Jorban remembered how tired he was and continued walking. He patted some of the stone dust from his hand onto his temp-fatigues, BattleVectors always had two replacement sets of uniform fatigues, because almost always when they entered battle, their primary uniforms would be torn apart by gunfire, if not shredded outright. His own uniform had been hurt enough that his commanders had seen fit to take it from him to get it repaired, he would likely see it again within the week. Jorban looked to the sky again as he made his way down the dark, silent street, his eyes rested on Mun, Saltor's primary moon. It seemed that Mun's satellite, Fusian, was not in the sky today, nor was Saltor's second satellite, Reesia, though Mun's pale blue was tolerable enough in the absence of its beautiful red sister. Mun had been the first place the Saltorian Space Explorers had landed upon, many millennia ago, the landing point of the first Saltorian had since been turned into a monument, and a colony had sprouted around it, it attracted many visitors each week from the other moons and Hoomanisire, the fourth planet in their solar system.

_In this, our most historic moment..._ Recalled Jorban, _we scream to the heavens in our triumph and success, and declare to the void that we refuse to be anchored and chained._ A moment passed, _Hasen, Hasen._ Sen Mun'Daa, the very first Saltorian to be given the Home Name 'Mun'.

After a few more minutes of walking, Jorban finally made it to his home. A two story, blue-painted abode, it was big enough to suit his and his mates' needs with enough room left over for comfort. He sighed in content and in lethargy and made his way up the stair case, reaching into his pocket he retrieved his keys and let himself into his home. It was dark and silent, save for one corner of the main room, there sat his third mate, Sela Sal'Naa, dutifully working dead into the night, it was not an unusual occurrence for Sela to be awake so late, she had been diagnosed early in her life with severe insomnia. This did little to impact her life, however, if anything it seemed to benefit her, she was wise beyond her years. Her ear twitched at the noise of the door opening, she looked behind herself and gazed down at the door, when Jorban shut it did her eyes adjust to the darkness, and did she recognize him.

"Your home." She said, with a nod. "Welcome back."

"Thank you, Sela." Said Jorban, he hung his hat on a hook next to the door, "you are working?" He inquired as he approached.

Sela nodded, her dark green scales cast in back-light by the bright computer screen. "There is little else to do, and charting flight-paths to Hoomanisire is a job so few of my co-workers seem fit to do." She said, lightly grinning as she felt Jorban's hand on her shoulder. "And my sister is trying to get a free path to Mun, so I am almost constantly having to tell her that I cannot do that."

"Why does your sister wish to go to Mun?" Jorban wondered, setting down his bag next to her desk. Jorban stood a foot taller than Sela, which was par for the course for Saltorians, the Males were eight feet and the females were seven, though that was where the differences watered down, as Saltorian Males and Females were almost aesthetic copies of one another, the biggest differences being that Females were smaller in size, had more slender frames, and more narrow, _almost_ feminine faces. "I thought your mother came from Reesia?" He looked at the computer screen as Sela typed away furiously.

"She does, but rumor between me and my other sisters is that she has a consort on Mun." Said Sela, a slight hint of disgust in her voice. "A Tyyrahn Air, I believe we've settled upon." She grinned, "her mate seems to be none the wiser, though that might be because we are wrong... I doubt it, however." She mused. "She was always the type to be weak enough to whore herself out to several men." She mentioned offhandedly.

"Are we to do anything about it?" Jorban wondered.

"Not as long as I am wrong." Said Sela, finally sitting back from the computer, though she didn't take her eyes off of it as she relaxed into the leather seat. "If I am not, we may have to Intervene." She mentioned with a subdued solidarity.

"Hm." Grunted Jorban, it wouldn't have been the first time he would have had to Intervene, he had once Intervened in one of his very own Gun-Brother's life affairs, though thankfully the scars from that event were easily coverable, everyone knew that a BattleVector was the perfect man to help with an Intervention, though when said BattleVector had to Intervene in another BattleVector's affairs, things got far messier far quicker. "I hope that happens when she is back in Landfall, I detest fighting on Mun, even more than I detest deployments in the northern MagmaFields." He said, lethargy practically seeping out of his words.

Sela caught on, "you sound exhausted." She nodded to their couch, "speak your mind, I am finished for the night."

Jorban nodded, in honesty he wished to sleep, though if one wished to live with a Saltorian woman, one would have to learn very quickly that when they gave instructions, one would do well to follow them. Even more for women who came from Sela's birth-town, a place renown for its low relative male population, the women there were rumored to have been created by the Hoomanisire's First Mate herself, Reesia, as these women were strong enough in will to battle even the most aged Priests, and stubborn enough to completely halt a BattleVector tacticioner. Though Sela wouldn't have been Jorban's first choice to speak his mind, she would most definitely do.

With that in mind, he fell into the couch, he only lay limply for a moment before he heard the sound of shifting leather, he lifted his tail and a moment later Sela sat down next to him, he laid his tail back down and she respectfully took it in her hands. Many of the furrier animal races would pet each others hair when they wished to comfort one another, Saltorians - and, even to some extend, tailed Ziln - petted their tails. Jorban sighed almost inaudibly as he felt Sela work her magic.

"You have a new scar." She noticed, avoiding the tender scales and flesh. "What occurred?"

Jorban leaned his head back, the base of his scalp resting against the wall behind him. "Several days ago, I am certain the events agencies reported on a small meteor shower in north western Innsua?" Sela nodded, "it was not space debris, but rather a fallen void-watcher." He explained.

"I am certain the rebels wished to retrieve it first." Sela predicted.

"Indeed." Said Jorban, his blood red eyes opening again, to stare at the ceiling, which was cast in dull shadows by the glow of the still-lit monitor. "My Gun-Brothers and I were sent to defend the area until the Praetorian could have a HellFire cannon air-lifted in." He noticed Sela pause slightly, she was intrigued. "I understand your wonder, we felt the same, but had little time to dwell on it. The battle went as well as they usually do, I did take a round in the tail, but aside from that, nothing different from the norm, though the rebels did use more vehicles than usual." He mentioned, "after the HellFire cannon cleaned the battlefield, we surveyed the impact point to make sure it was safe for the Studiers. We discovered that the object that fell from the void _was,_ in fact, a Void-Watcher, but it was not one of ours."

Sela tilted her head in confusion, "one of ours? You mean, BattleVector?"

"No." Jorban felt too tired to shake his head, "I mean 'ours' as in Saltorian. It took the Studiers not long at all to discern this, the metals used to craft it were of similar makeup to what we can find on Saltor and Hoomanisire, but were of different quality. The machinery within it was more advanced than anything we could craft, though nowhere near as great as the gifts of the gods." He explained, "they know not from where it came, and they know not who made it, they only know that it did not come from _here_, and that _we_ did not make it... Most damning of all is what it suggests."

"What does it suggest?" Asked Sela.

"That we are not alone, here or there." Said Jorban, "that somewhere, there is - or _was - _another child of the Hoomanisire, and they - like we - are trying to find the gods."

"You say that as if it is a bad thing..." Sela noticed.

"The Hoomanisire left _us_ because of our violent nature, and uncounted dark years were spent in absolute anger, as we slaughtered ourselves, trying to place blame on one specific faction... We have spent eons trying to earn back their favor... So what could this new species have done? And how angry are _they,_ who can travel the stars?" He shook his head, "I fear there is something on the horizon, and even the death and destruction of the Dreg War will pale in comparison."

* * *

><p><em>AN_

_So, I forgot to take out the Footnotes for my Beta, when I released this chapter. _

_And I may have unintentionally spoiled a f*ckload of content as a result. _

_I am **indescribably** sorry for that, I had completely forgotten it was still in there. _

_-PFB_


	18. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

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><p><em>(Mortar strike goes off behind him, Colonel Kilgore doesn't even flinch) "- Someday this war is gonna end."<em>

— _**Colonel Kilgore from Apocalypse Now.**_

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><p><em><strong>April 19<strong>__**th**__** , 2216**_

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><p>Situated deep underneath a mountain, in the center of a base, upon what was quickly becoming one of the most heavily contested planets currently under Human siege, the Planetary Leader of Siler, Jonz Salf, was looking over the war front. He knew that there were six planets in Hegemony Space that were under attack by the Alliance, one had already lost more than half of its territory to the war mongers. He knew that only one planet - Sirn - had gotten reinforcements from the Hegemony's naval assets, but that had done extremely little on the naval front. The Humans <em>dominated<em> in space, their magnetically accelerated weapons simply did more damage, they moved faster, and even the Council's new, far more powerful, sensitive, and fine-tuned Kinetic Barriers couldn't hold up to a sustained assault from the Human Navy. Worse still was what the Humans _did_ with these ships, once they trounced whatever navy dared to stand against them. The Humans were using a stacked approach: first they dominated the void, then they dominated the air, then they finally went to work on the ground. This approach was so impregnable, so perfect and simple that, aside from Sirn, only a few planets could claim they had more than seventy five percent of their territory still under the control of the Hegemony.

Unfortunately, Siler was not one of those planets. Less than sixty percent of its landmass had been taken by the Alliance, and more still was being taken every moment. Thankfully, ever since the intervention of the Hunters, the Hegemony's technology had begun functioning again, the Siler Protection Force could bare its teeth against the Humans properly. Where the Humans brought tanks, the Batarians brought Light Armored Vehicles; where the Humans brought jets and helicopters, the Batarians brought Gunships; and where the Humans brought Soldiers, the Batarians brought ungodly amounts of resistance. The shock had long since worn off, but the Awe was still present.

The Humans still had air and void dominance, which meant that they controlled the ground. Their soldiers were better equipped, arguably better trained, and they were better fed, ever since they had begun targeting Batarian supply lines. Both fortunately and unfortunately for Salf, outside of City Assaults, no reports had come in about the Alliance's SIGMA Operatives. The Alliance was either saving their super soldiers, or they didn't see this planet as cause enough for an Augmented Assault. Siler had reports that any Black Ops or Stealth assignment the Alliance had to undertake was being handled by their N7 forces, in other words their SIGMAs were simply _not here._ Salf, however, was finding himself in the position where he needed more and more readily available supplies of Hunters, but they were a finite source of special forces troops, whereas the Alliance's OD3 and N7 Special Forces seemed to be infinite. Any battle where the Hunters and the Alliance Special Forces clashed, was a pyrrhic stalemate, the Hunters used their skills and experience to fight the Alliance to a bitter and bloody draw, and the Alliance forced such casualties upon the Hunters that the Hunters couldn't possibly take them again. Salf's few thousand Hunters were dwindling to just over twelve hundred, and he knew that if he used them as a defensive offense, he would lose them _all_.

Thus came the meeting of the minds, he sat in this base, the most secure on all of Siler and most likely to be the final stand of the Siler Protection Forces, to discuss just _what_ they would be dedicating their one thousand, two hundred and sixteen remaining Ghosts to. Salf sat next to the two other most powerful Batarian Men on Siler, Heiz Zahn, and Breck Shoen, the Colonial Defense Administrator and the Foreign and Domestic Relations Administrator, respectively.

Salf was the first to speak, Zahn was his target, "where do we stand on Human Assaults?"

"Ever since Siler's capital city fell to the Human Nuclear weapon, the morale of our forces has been _plummeting_. But the Hunters' continued victories against Human forces, and the recent restoration of power, both have helped morale and our defenses." Zahn explained, his pale skin seeming to go white under Salf's harsh, expectant gaze. "N- no continent has fallen in its entirety, though! _But_ they have beachheads across all settlements and are using these places to launch their assaults. Wherever we can bog them down, however, is where we gain some ground, as without their momentum they slow to a crawl, barely able to break our defensive lines... Until they can call in a satellite strike, at least."

"I've been speaking to Khar'Shan about reinforcements… but we're a border world, sir, they're devoting their time and resources to Sirn." Breck added in, shamefully.

Salf scowled at the two, "so what we _do_ have, is what we _will_ have." He stated, with a nod. "Have the Humans found this base, yet?"

"No sir, but their aerial and orbital reconnaissance efforts have picked up tremendously ever since the Hunters' firebombing." Zahn answered.

"Alright…" Salf thought for a moment, he needed a plan of assault and it seemed clear that these two were as lost as he was, meaning he had to work on his own. The problem was, his only effective fighting force was his Hunters, but where could he send twelve hundred Hunters, that would properly strike fear into the Humans? This fear would have to be used immediately, for the proper effect, the most prospective action being a break in their defensive lines, because he didn't have to _win_ this war, he just had to _not lose._ "Where are the Human command posts?" He asked, his mind going to a blue-on-blue scenario.

Zahn, however, shook his head, "the Human navy covers this. The camps we've seen sprout up amongst the surface of Siler are simply resting stations, and their beachheads are waypoints between their fleet and our planet. The camps and bases, while enormous, are _designed_ to be temporary. They can set up shop in hours, and then take it all down just as quickly. Their central command posts are their flagships, and in the absence of that, the carrier under the command of the rear admiral." He explained, "and the former is protected by impregnable armor, whilst the latter can so heavily defend itself that taking it would be too resource-intensive." He was trying to stem the gleam he was seeing in the Colonial Chancellor's eyes, but unfortunately, he had the opposite effect, because here was where it clicked for Salf.

The Human strength came from their orbital dominance, their _technology._ But if _his_ kind had this technology, they could defeat the Humans - at least, they could once they left the six worlds with Human slaves. Necessary sacrifices for the greater good, yes, but this posed a very significant problem: This was _Human_ technology, their unbeatable weapons were designed to destroy _their _defenses, and their impregnable defenses were designed to protect against _their _weapons. It was circular logic, but given that the only weapons out there that _could_ break their defenses or beat their weapons were theirs to begin with, it wasn't entirely faulty. If he could do this, if he could succeed where even the _Turians_ failed, he could open a door to a path the Hegemony - perhaps even the _galaxy_ could never exit: They could steal Human technology to do with it what they did best, reverse-engineer it and make it better. Ignoring the private favor they would gain from the Council if this plan worked, simply stealing one of their ships opened up a short-term opportunity: a surprise strike behind Human borders. They could, while the hornets were fighting, set fire to their nest.

Salf enveloped his hands together and rested his head upon them, thinking. His subordinates knew this look and waited.

Salf knew that either option, taking the Human technology for the Hegemony - and, later, the Council, or using it as a retaliatory option, would usher forth numerous opportunities for his kind. If they kept the technology, they could study it and destroy the Alliance, but that would take time and money that, after this war, the Hegemony would be hard pressed to have. If they took the ship and struck at Human territory, they could have an immediate, lasting effect: The Humans would live in fear, in their very homes. If they found a ship with nuclear armaments, the possibilities would be endless.

With a deep, determined sigh, Salf made his choice. A surprise assault, while it would bolster morale, was practically suicide, they had to steal a ship for study. At the very least, they could give this ship to the Council and gain their support, perhaps even gratitude. The question was, though, _which_ ship? They couldn't take a Flagship, those massive, three kilometer _beasts_ of a vessel held many a thousand sailors, and as such were heavily defended. But a frigate would be far too lightly armed, with little technology worthy enough to steal, and while a Dreadnought or Carrier would have the technology, they faced similar problems to the Flagship.

_So their Cruisers... The 'Destroyers'..._ Thought Zahn,_ They would be the best bet. _

They just had to take one.

"I want the Comm Buoy scans." Zahn stated, "and I want contact made with the Khar'Shan mock-up flotilla. We're going to steal Alliance Warships."

* * *

><p>John Doe S1-1 was waiting. He sat in a Carrier's hangar bay, waiting for SIGMA I Alpha Squad to be called in to conduct their mission. He was already armed, armored, loaded down and cleaned up. His weapons were cleaner than ever, his ammunition deadly as it would ever be, and his armor as advanced as the Mk. I Titan could get. His polarized gas-mask helmet was the iconic SIGMA I mask, the SCBA-Looking armor-plated face-mask, not at all like the helmets gas mask the Twos would be getting, which were more aesthetically similar to World War 3 era XM40 Gas Masks. His helmet was pressurized and sealed against his face, its padding was still as fresh and as comfortable as the day he'd put it on for the first time, so long ago, and its HUD was still as reliable as ever. His mask specifically was one of the most recognizable, iconic pieces of Titan Armor and the SIGMA Program in general.<p>

Titan Armor, it was the single most advanced piece of machinery the Alliance could produce for its infantry. With the constantly-advancing technology inside of it, it was as much a weapon to be used as it was a tool to be utilized, and the SIGMAs - who were forged into being weapons themselves - wielded them with a supreme efficiency. It was as much an image of the SIGMAs, as the SIGMAs were for Human infantry-superiority, entire armies had been known to surrender when their snipers and reconnaissance drones reported seeing the golden visor of a Mk. I helmet, or the medieval-knight-esque plate-metal armor of the warrior his or herself. John Doe S1, the _very first_ SIGMA Operative to have ever existed, knew everything about his armor by heart, all of it being so meticulously grafted in to his mind to the point where it was instinctual, like muscle-memory, it would come to him before he even knew it was there. He knew what every augmentation in his body was doing to it, and he knew what every machine in his power armor did, and how it affected him. He had reasoned that he downright_ had_ to know know all of this, so he could tell what was going wrong, if something went wrong, and how to fix it on the fly. This pseudo-religious dedication to the understanding of his augmentations and his armor had set the bar for the SIGMA I's, _all_ of them, without fail, followed in these footsteps, and this bar's placement would have to be surpassed by the SIGMA II's, when they turned eighteen and got their _real_ augmentations, and not the watered-down baseline chemical/genetic augments.

Unfortunately for Doe, he was what was known as an 'Original SIGMA', which meant that he'd been a part of the three fourths majority of I's during the Second Contact War that had been the recipient of a horrible mishap of medical technology. His bones, which were almost entirely covered in extremely durable metals, which made them nigh indestructible, couldn't properly produce blood cells, which, in turn, forced the doctors to have to make an impromptu addition to the SIGMA I Augmentation Procedure, which essentially filled the enormous gap that the bones had left. The 'wrong augmentations' were _still_ a black mark on the late Jason McGraw's long list of achievements, but so few actually knew, that the black mark had faded greatly, even the current Director for Affairs didn't know about the difference between Original and Modern SIGMA I's.

Doe could feel it right now, the dozen machines all through his body, working tirelessly to make healthy blood cells for him. It had an odd effect on him, it felt like it was harder to breathe, like the air in his lungs was heavier, more reluctant to leave his body. In addition, his bones were ever so slightly more apt to creak and groan when he didn't move for a while. All of this attributed to one thing, which his augmentations were supposed to cover, but couldn't due to the botched procedure: Doe was getting old, and his past mistakes were catching up with him. He would have to retire sometime soon, and that thought alone horrified him, even now, as he was left alone, sitting on a crate of ammunition in the belly of an Alliance Carrier, one leg propped up on the crates and another swinging freely below him. He knew that, if he retired, it would be a life of a wheel-chair and living off of the pay he'd gotten and never used, during his long life of service without leave. He also knew there was a second option, a slightly more honorable, less embarrassing one, he could _die._ He could simply bite the bullet in a firefight, and allow himself to succumb to his injuries. But the problem with that was, if he died, he wouldn't be useful, if he retired, he could come out, if only for one last mission, one final fight.

It was something that had been plaguing Doe's mind for days now, ever since that visit to Titan Medical Station, over Earth. But it would be a thought that would, like all other personal thoughts, be eclipsed by the needs of the Human race. For Doe, and for every SIGMA in existence, it was Humanity, Earth, the Systems Alliance, the Quarians, and _then_ the self, in that order, in descending level of importance. Doe was legendary for his pride and devotion to his race, some of the tales that included enormous body counts weren't as false as many OD3's and N7 believed.

Doe pushed all of these thoughts out of his mind when his augmented hearing heard the sound of metallic boots clanking on the ground of the Alliance Carrier. He looked up, his HUD actively scanning his environment, layering the ground, walls, and ceiling in a small blue-white web, friendlies in a green aura, enemies in a red aura, and objects of importance or danger in a yellow or red aura respectively. He saw the two other members of SIGMA I Alpha Squad, Betty Slone S1-176, and Tom Burtston S1-281, walking to him.

Doe inhaled and exhaled deeply, his personal time was up, now was the time for war. With a feeling of an incomprehensibly heavy weight being placed back upon his shoulders, Doe got to his feet, and grabbed his rifle. He was ready for war, and as they made their way to the shuttle, he could only pray that his enemies were too. Unceremoniously, the enormous blast doors that separated the SSV John F Kennedy from the unforgiving void of space, opened, and the shuttle - piloted by Betty - took off.

"Recap." Doe stated, his audio scrambler not active, so his voice came through as deep and as human as the day it had been, when he'd been born.

"Command is pissed that Siler's got power. Already we're getting slave kamikaze attacks on our camps." Tom began, as he handed Doe an AI Disk. "So we're going in to show the Hegemony Forces on Siler what happens when you piss off the Alliance." He said, pulling the bolt on his enormous antimaterial rifle, to accentuate his point.

"Objective."

_"Simple, S1." _Came Alpha Squad's AI, who spoke with the tone tremolo of an old man, and as such they affectionately called it 'Uncle Bill'. _"Intelligence from Alliance AI Construct Nikola has shown that there is an enormous gathering of Batarian Hunter forces and Slave Warriors. The Hunters plan to enter an Alliance Refugee camp under the guise of being escaped slaves, and when they're safe and sound, they'll strike." _Uncle Bill paused, _"we're going to strike the Hunters before they move."_

"Rules of Engagement?"

_"Try and at least take one Hunter prisoner."_ Said Bill, _"but if you can't, just make sure as few slaves as possible die."_

"Secondary Objectives?"

_"Nikola said he was sixty four percent confident that the Hunters' Lead Ranking Officer had data that would prove the Hegemony's involvement with the nuclear weapon deployed on Siler City. Obtain it if at all possible."_

"Understood." Said Doe, as he chambered a round in his SFR. "Operational Support?"

"The Carrier has appropriated us one Dragon Drone and one Turtle Mech." Came Betty's voice, as she handled the shuttle's controls as comfortably as an engineer would handle a wrench. "I've already got the UAV running stealth and flying above the target zone. One word and I'll start painting targets."

"And the UGV?"

"Waiting to be dropped from the Carrier."

Doe nodded, he only had one question left to ask, and every SIGMA knew its answer like the back of his or her hand. "What about Reinforcements?"

"What reinforcements?" Came the voice of a grinning Tom.

"We're not enough?" Betty asked, similarly grinning.

"Got to give the Suicide Leapers _something_ to look forward to." Said Doe, as the shuttle began shaking, the tell-tale sign of atmospheric entry.

The rest of the shuttle ride turned into a quick roller-coaster ride of an atmospheric entry. Alliance Shuttles were designed to function both terrestrially and extraterrestrially, in atmosphere and out. They accomplished this in the mid 2130's by incorporating a World War 3 era helicopter design, and rebuilding it from the ground up. The ancient V22-Osprey had received a revival in the form of the Systems Alliance Transport Shuttle, which had helicopter rotors for aerial travel, and powerful thrusters for void travel. Under its own power, the ATS's thrusters could reach escape velocity, and its tilt-wing helicopter rotors could get it going to over 350 miles per hour. While the ATS certainly wasn't designed for combat, it was a force to be reckoned with by itself. Its armaments included a turret powerful enough to chew through tank armor in seconds, and a dozen high explosive missiles.

Doe, like he did with his augmentations and his armor, knew nearly everything about the shuttle. He knew its systems, its armor, its shields, and knew how to pilot it with the skill rivaling the Alliance Air/Space Force's best pilots. He knew that the shuttle's violent shaking was only natural, because it was entering Siler's atmosphere at speeds. He knew that Betty's calm demeanor meant that nothing was wrong on her end, and he knew that Tom's slow, calculated breathing meant he was simply readying himself for another bloodbath, on the level that only SIGMAs ever saw. Doe also knew they only had five minutes left until they touched down, so he bowed his head and did his own pre-mission ritual.

He closed his eyes, and exhaled a deep sigh. He could feel it, far off, he could feel the fear of failure, of weakness, of any possible wrong thing that could happen to him or to his squad. He knew that it was there, and that it would fight him like a bloodthirsty Krogan if he allowed it to, so instead of fighting it, he embraced it.

_Five._ He could feel the heavy feeling in his lungs increase tenfold, and the weight on his shoulders increase twice as much as that.

_Four._ He could feel the fear in his own augmented eyes, threatening to open them to a world of darkness in which his gun couldn't protect his people.

_Three._ He could feel the voices of fear slithering into his ears, whispering of dark things. They wanted his very soul, they wanted him to fail, they wanted him to know what it would mean to fail, and thus, to fail everything he'd ever known.

_Two._ He felt the stress of a lifetime of war and battle, creeping into his bones and stiffening them up. The lethargic, drowsy feeling that came with the stress was welcomed like an old friend.

_One._ Everything crashed down onto him at once, trying to break him, trying to kill his resolve and rot his soul. He could feel the weight of his pistol on his hip, and knew in the back of his mind that if he jammed it right under his chin, and pulled the trigger, the magnum round would soar straight through his brains and end his life, end the pain of war.

_I'm done._ Like the flip of a switch, with that thought the fear was gone. In its place was determination, and strength. He could feel his heartbeat, and knew that that alone meant he was still alive. He could feel the skin suit on his hands, and knew that that alone meant he could fight. He could feel the weight of the tactical vest on his torso, and knew that that alone meant he had the tools to fight countless enemies. All together, meant that he was a Human being, a _warrior,_ the perfect warrior, and the first warrior of his class, ever to have graced the battlefield.

_We are SIGMA…_ Thought Doe, as the shuttle's thrusters spun around and began burning in the opposite direction, rapidly bringing their break-neck speed to a slow crawl. _We are gods._ The thrusters deactivated, and quickly were replaced by the helicopter rotors, creating the iconically _Human_ sound of a helicopter breaking the silence of the air. _There is no one else… Who will defeat our cause._ The Helicopter slowed to a hover, as Betty deftly brought it to touch down on the ground. _And if you need us to show our proof…_ He looked up, the same determined look in his eye, behind the same golden visor that had been the last thing countless thousands of Mankind's enemies had seen. _We'll show you our god damn boot._ He, Tom, and Betty each got to their feet, as the ATS powered down.

Silently, the three got to their feet and exited their shuttle. A moment after they were introduced to Siler's cold atmosphere, they activated their tactical cloaks in unison. Doe's HUD immediately kicked in, outlining his body in a blue outline, and the bodies of his rapidly disappearing squad mates in green outlines.

_"John Doe S1-1 Ready."_

_ "Tom Burtston S1-281 Ready." _

_ "Betty Slone S1-176 Ready."_

"Alpha Squad, move out." Ordered Doe.

* * *

><p>The Alpha Squad had purposely landed several kilometers from the target area. They had done this for several reasons, but the prime one was that helicopters, for all their power and all their finesse, were <em>loud.<em> Landing anywhere nearer than they did could have tipped off the Hunters, who had gotten a reputation for being the 'SIGMAs of the Hegemony'. While very few actually took that nickname seriously, the Alliance Augmented Elite _did._ Ever since they had gone up against the Turian Ghosts during the Second Contact War, whenever there was a rumor of alien super soldiers, it was immediately brought to the attention of both the Director for Augmented Affairs, and the Director for Defense, and then ushered forth a SIGMA response.

For Doe and Alpha squad, the Alliance simply couldn't wait any longer. Until now, SIGMA Presence in the Batarian War had been largely limited to the 'Designated SIGMAs' in the assaults on the cities and population centers. Only two planets, Torta and Sirn, had seen extensive SIGMA deployment. Here on Siler, though, the Alliance simply couldn't ignore the growing threat the Hunters posed, and hiding behind noncombatants had finally played their hand.

As Doe, Tom, and Betty made their way to the Target Zone, Doe used his suit's onboard computers to brush up on the Hunters. Their operations were largely classified, but no firewalls could withstand the full concentration from an Alliance AI, save for the firewalls created by Man himself. Hunters were much more akin to a fusion of N7 and OD3 forces, they had a primary basis in stealth, but were _no_ strangers to heading to the front lines and leading the assault. Hunters had been the primary reason that many assaults on Siler had been fought to an utter stalemate, but what had Doe - and many generals and admirals in the Alliance - worried, was the fact that Siler was the only planet they had gotten reports of Hunters from. Hegemony databases clearly said that each colony world had a presence of Hunters, but only Siler had seen fit to deploy them.

Doe couldn't decide whether or not this was a good thing, and after they reached the borders of a forest's edge, he stopped thinking about it. They had been creeping through this forest for over a quarter of an hour, and its edge left them at the crest of a large hill. The grass, a dead brown color, was knee-height, and down at the base of the hill Doe could see what looked like a small town, not big enough to be a city, but not small enough to be called a village. It looked like a suburban population center, stores and food restaurants were littering the areas where houses didn't stand, and landing zones for the Sky Roads didn't carve out.

_"What can we see from the UAV?"_ Doe asked his team over the radio, as he used his visor to zoom in on the village. From a twelve times optical zoom, which still retained the clarity and detail of a Sniper's Scope, he couldn't see anyone out patrolling the perimeter, or anyone walking anywhere, for that matter.

_"Center of the town, in the parking lot of what looks like a strip mall. I've got a mass of heat signatures."_ Betty reported.

_"Thermals second this."_ Came Tom.

_"Alright, Tom."_ Said Doe, _"I want you to set up on this building here, you'll be our sniper support. Keep an eye on our UAV."_ Doe indicated a small apartment building, he heard Tom respond positively and begin moving. _"Betty, you're with me. I want radio silence unless in the event of an emergency." _A pause,_ "we're moving now."_

With that, SIGMA Alpha Squad went on the move. Tom would provide sniper support and overwatch from the rooftop of the apartment building, while simultaneously keeping an eye on the video feed from their Unmanned Aerial Vehicle, which Doe could just spot high up in the sky, circling their position. Betty would be with Doe as they moved right for the parking lot. The three SIGMAs' tactical cloaks barely shimmered in the cloud-covered moonlight, which made them look like ghosts in the night. Their AI was watching over all three of them, but couldn't help but notice one rather peculiar thing, which he voiced to Doe as they entered the town's outer limits.

_"S1."_

"Go."

_"I'm not detecting any Batarian radio frequencies in the area."_ The AI reported, _"nothing. Short range, long range, I can't find anything that suggests to me that they're communicating to their command headquarters."_

"This is a black op, Bill." Said Doe, though his face was set in a scowl at the peculiarity of the situation, "they might not be allowed to communicate unless in the event of victory." He paused, as he and Betty cane to the corner of a fast food building, "keep me posted, though." He nodded to Betty, who rounded the corner, rifle raised, followed swiftly by him.

Doe and Betty expertly made their way through the town. One thing both of them found exceedingly odd, and slightly creepy, was the utter silence of it all. Aside from the nearly nonexistent noise of their footsteps, there was _no_ noise in the town, none at all. Even as they got closer and closer to their target, there was no noise, no voices, no panicked whispering, no Hunters issuing orders, nothing at all.

Doe and Betty entered one of the buildings of the strip mall, both on a hunch and on the idea that it would take less time to go _straight through_ the store, than going around it. What they found was more creepy than the empty city, the grocery store looking building too, was dead quiet, and void of any signs of life, save for the hastily cleared out shelves that held alien food.

"What the hell are we stumbling on, S1?" Doe heard Betty ask, as they slowly made their way through the store, suppressed rifles raised and fingers waiting to pull the triggers that would unleash dozens of bullets into any possibly hostile target. "There's no one _here!"_ She whispered.

"Acknowledged." Said Doe, his tone saying he wasn't disturbed, but Betty knew him, and the clipped way with which he spoke told her that he was just as concerned and confused at this, as she was.

As they made their way to the entrance of the grocery store, a red flag was raised by Tom. The two immediately stopped what they were doing, crouched behind cover, and checked the flag. The flag was the one flag _no_ SIGMA, no Alliance Special Forces Operative, ever wanted to see:

_Houston, we have a problem. _

"Should we break radio silence?"

"Check the UAV, if the situation was so pressing Tom would have done so." Doe ordered, as Betty activated the touch-screen tactical device underneath her armor's right forearm. Doe checked the UAV Feed too, and saw what Tom was trying to communicate to them.

Tom had used the UAV's Augmented Reality feed to construct a message above his sniper's nest, in the second to last floor underneath the Apartment Building's rooftop. The message was simple:

_No Targets Available. _

"Move to the target zone to confirm." Doe ordered Betty, after he flashed a green flag to let Tom know that the message was received.

The two hurriedly, but quietly, made their way through the grocery store. They made it to the front entrance, and on a single nod from Doe, exited it, their cloaks still activated and their rifles raised. Doe had expected to see almost anything, from Batarians torturing their slaves, to slaves revolting against their masters. He'd expected to see wolves in sheep's clothing, or perhaps the exact opposite. He had expected to see just about anything, except nothing.

What Doe Doe S1-1 saw, was _nothing._ There weren't any Batarians in the parking lot, there wasn't anything on the motion trackers, there wasn't anything, anywhere. Just a big, empty parking lot, save for the destroyed or parked sky-cars.

"Betty, check the UAV." Said Doe, getting to his feet and scanning his surroundings with his rifle.

"I already did." Said Betty, as she too got to her feet. "We are _literally_ standing in the middle of an enormous mass of heat signatures…" She deactivated her tactical cloak to get a better, less obstructed look around. Doe did the same.

"Uncle Bill, are there any malfunctions with the Drone?" Doe asked, as he took a few steps forward, slowly lowering his rifle slowly into alert-carry.

_"None, S1. I've checked six times already."_ A pause, _"seven. None."_

"Was it hacked? Perhaps we're being fed a bad feed?"

_"I detected no intrusions upon the drone's control or camera feeds. We're simply being shown ghosts."_

On a hunch, Doe reached his left hand out, his right hand bracing his rifle against his armored thigh. He thought he'd feel an invisible Batarian, but he only felt air. Betty did the same, and she too didn't feel anything. Neither of them saw the telltale shimmer of a tactical cloak, or the dead giveaway of shadows on the ground. There simply wasn't anyone here.

Tom raised a yellow flag; Doe knew what he meant: Foul Play. He couldn't think of who would have done something like this, though, did the Batarians know, and flee? If so, why were there still heat signatures?"

"Betty… Are there any machines on the ground that could fool a UAV's cameras?" Doe asked on a hunch.

"Nothing. I've been scanning the ground for the entire time we've been out here." She said, as she followed Doe further out into the open. "Nothing's here that could -" They both were frozen when she, Doe, and Tom each saw the motion trackers light up. But instead of red, the trackers showed the green dots that denoted friendlies.

On the VR Field, Tom quickly sent them a notification beacon, and the two SIGMAs on the ground whirled around, to be met with another SIGMA Squad, similarly dropping their tactical cloaks. The three man squad hadn't elected to drop a sniper in a building, but they were similarly equipped as Alpha Squad.

_"Luna!"_ Doe called out.

_"Armstrong."_ Called the other squad leader.

"What's Omega Squad doing here?" Doe called out, lowering his rifle and marching over to the other three SIGMAs.

"We were told a few squads of N7 had gone missing. Are you our backup?"

"We were told there were Batarian Hunters holding -" Another Notification Beacon, three more green dots, and then a loud voice, obviously amplified by his suit's external speakers.

_"Luna!"_ He heard the voice shout.

_"Armstrong!"_ Doe said instantly.

Three more SIGMAs popped their heads out and deactivated their cloaks. In seconds, eight SIGMAs were standing in the middle of a dead, empty parking lot.

"What are you doing here" Doe asked the newcomers.

"Reports of three SIGMA Squads gone missing in the area."

Doe frowned as something clicked in the back of his head, "One." Doe pointed to himself and Betty, "two." He pointed to Omega Squad, "three." He pointed to the newcomers.

"This doesn't bode well." Almost everyone was scanning rooftops and horizons, looking for ambushers.

It only took Doe a moment of deliberation before he decided he'd face the repercussions of breaking radio silence, and he flipped on his long-range. "Breaking radio silence." He announced, before he brought his fingers to the nook just under the right side of his jaw.

_"Command, this is John Doe S1 -"_ Doe was rewarded with a horrifyingly loud squelching sound.

"Comms jammed!" Betty was getting nervous now.

Doe wasn't entirely sure, he switched to the local short-wave. "Tom."

_"Yes Commander?" _Came Tom.

_"Sitrep."_ The senior SIGMA ordered, before he looked to Betty. "Comms not jammed. Something's wrong here."

_"No clue what to make of this. Everything screams ambush, but I'm not getting anything. I had to actually hack my way through the UAV's firewalls to switch off its thermal optics. All I see is you and the other squads." _Tom reported.

"This isn't good." Said Omega Squad's leader.

_"Can you see anything up there?"_ Doe asked, turning to look at Tom, who could only be identified by the glint of his rifle's scope, as it scanned the town.

_"Nada." _Said Tom, _"can't see anything except storm clouds."_

"Uncle Bill, anything useful?"

_"I cannot ascertain as to why our long range communications have been knocked out. I detect no signal jammers within eight kilometers of our position. Nothing on the motion trackers save for SIGMA Omega Squads and… The newcomers."_

"Alpha Company, Dagger 2-6."

"Three SIGMA Squads, three different objectives, same operational zone." Said Doe, looking up to the sky, as if looking there would give him the answers he needed.

All he saw however, were the dark orange clouds, thick with the collected moisture from - _"MOVE!" _Doe shouted as he recognized the telltale signs of a missile strike heading their way.

Doe grabbed Betty by the arm and the two were sprinting in unison in seconds. It didn't even register for the other SIGMA's what he'd said until the two were already sprinting away. They didn't hesitate when they saw the orange glow intensify, and they too ran as fast as they possibly could.

_"John, impact in seven seconds!" _Uncle Bill informed him.

_"Tom, get out of there!"_ Shouted the sprinting SIGMA.

_"John, I'm detecting a radiation spike! This missile is nuclear!"_

_"RUN!" _Doe should have seen it coming, the Batarians had already glassed one city, and that one was filled with a few thousand marines and soldiers. Now they had _nine _of the best SIGMA I's available, of course they wouldn't take any chances.

Still sprinting, Doe looked behind him, the missile had just breached the cloud barrier, but to Doe's horror, he _recognized_ it. It wasn't Batarian, it was Alliance. What was hurtling towards the ground was a _Human_ Weapon of Mass Destruction; Doe only saw two reasons for this: Accidental Launch, or Rebel Weapon. Neither one was good, but both had the same effect: They couldn't outrun this. No species in the galaxy knew nukes like the Humans did, and therefore, no species in the galaxy could properly replicate the Alliance Nuclear Arsenal's deadly effects. The few thousand Human forces that had escaped Siler City had been running from a Batarian bomb, and they had been given a heads up, so they had all the odds stacked for them; but them? They had less than seven seconds to run, and a _Human_ nuke to try and evade.

They wouldn't make it. Doe knew this.

But he also knew he'd be damned if he didn't try everything he could. With a deep breath, Doe stopped running. _"Shields!"_ He roared to his compatriots, who had stopped fleeing when they'd noticed his halt.

_"John, what are you -"_ Uncle Bill began, but Doe silenced him by magnetically clamping his rifle onto his back, and for the first time, he activated his Shield Hardener, soon, so did the similarly thinking Betty, Omega Squad, Tom, and Dagger 2-6.

Doe was facing ground zero, his feet braced against the shockwave to come, and his arms crossed in an 'X' in front of his helmet. In a half second, his entire suit was enveloped in a glowing cloak of golden-orange protective energy. In another half second, the nuclear weapon detonated just above the ground it was hurtling towards. The immobile SIGMA shut his eyes tightly against the blinding flash of light, almost praying he could keep them if he survived. In the final half second between the nuke detonating, and the shockwave slamming into him, Doe wondered if this would be the death of him.

But as his hardened shields held up, and the shockwave picked him up and threw him through the air, he knew it wouldn't be. He could hear his tactical cloak getting incinerated by the quickly following heat wave, and he could just barely hear his Heads Up Display beeping rapidly, informing him that his shields, while still standing, were taking one hell of a beating. But that was why they were hardened, to make them all _but_ indestructible. He knew they were designed to take immeasurable amounts of damage, and allow their wielder to keep fighting, but no one had expected them to go up against _nukes._ So Doe could only hope they held up.

For an entire ten seconds, Doe flew through the air, nothing to protect him save for his shields and his armor. Finally Doe crashed violently and abruptly into the ground, tumbling end over end and side over side into the rough dirt and, soon, the rough concrete of the unforgiving ground, until finally he slid to a halt. Every instinct told Doe to unfreeze himself and get up, but he knew better.

_Ten seconds._ Doe told himself, keeping his eyes shut tight. He was breathing heavily, and his body was in pain, obviously something had either gone wrong or he was going to be treated to something nasty when he woke up.

_Five seconds._ He knew of course that he had just survived a nuclear explosion with little more than a layer of shielding and his armor, so of course his body would be sore. He also knew that this couldn't have been anything _but_ a city-breaker, anything else would have overwhelmed his shields in seconds due to their raw explosive yield.

_Alright… Wake up._ Doe told himself, before his shields deactivated and his body became mobile again.

The first thing Doe saw when he opened his eyes was his HUD, heartlessly informing him that _his_ squad mates were dead, one of the Omegas were dead, and one of the Daggers was seriously wounded. The next thing he saw was that his visor was heavily tinted, he knew that it must have done that to protect his eyes from the blinding light of the nuke. The third thing was that his ears were ringing loudly, but through it he could hear a voice. The only options were that it was Uncle Bill, his allies, or Alliance Command, frantically trying to figure out what in god's name had just happened.

Doe took a deep breath before he sat up. He felt his bones creak and groan as he did so, but he ignored the feeling. He scanned his horizon, and saw that it was flat. The shockwave and heat waves had done their magic, there wasn't a sign of life for miles, be it sentient or otherwise. Off in the distance, Doe could see the mushroom cloud, looming threateningly above him. It was still bright orange, from the high heat of the detonation. But around it, Doe could see clouds rapidly forming, he knew the Black Rain would be coming soon, it had been about ready to rain when they were standing in the parking lot, now it was most assuredly going to pour.

Doe inhaled deeply and held it, as he hauled himself to his feet. His left leg felt weak, so he put more of his weight on his right, as he waited for the Cell Fluid injectors to kick in.

With another deep inhale and exhale, Doe focused through the ringing in his ears. He was just able to make out a voice, and it was speaking to him.

_"This is Alpha 1, responding to person unknown. Be advised my hearing is damaged and I am recovering from an explosion." _He said loudly and clearly.

_"Doe?"_ That sounded like the Director for Defense, but the ringing in Doe's ears was still present, so he couldn't detect the man's voice entirely. _"John Doe? Did you survive?" _

_"Affirmative."_

_"John, this is Alliance Director for Defense, Jonathan Serios, I'm speaking to you from Artcurus Station. Are you aware of the current situation?" _

_ "Negative." _

_ "I'll keep it simple: You're being extracted from the war zone. We're recalling every SIGMA we can and bringing them here, we've got a situation." _

_"The Batarians?" _Doe brought up his virtual reality suite, and saw that the ATS - while damaged - was still flight worthy, and even if it wasn't still vacuum ready, he had a good forty five minutes of oxygen in his suit, so he could evacuate himself if he had to.

_"No sir, not the Batarians." _

_"Who? The Rebels?"_

_ "It's Nikola."_ This caught Doe up, _"something's wrong with him, he's going haywire. We've already sent in a team of N7 to try and subdue him but they haven't reported in. How many Alphas survived?" _

_ "One." _

_ "Omega?" _

_ "Two."_

_ "Hm… Alright, you're still here. I hate to call you after such a disaster -" _

_ "It's no problem, sir. My ATS is still functional, should I expect extraction?" _

_ "We already have birds in the air, John."_ Said Serios, before a bright blue green flash emanated in the sky above him. _"And we've already got TD's cleaning up the atmospheres." _

_ "Atmospheres?" _Doe emphasized the plural, _"how many SIGMAs did we just lose? How many nukes went off?" _

_ "Too many, John. Too many SIGMA Ones on-assignment haven't reported back in. We're already working on cleaning up the atmosphere and biospheres of the affected planets, we're certain we'll find other survivors."_ Said Serios, as the blue green flash enveloped the mushroom cloud.

Doe found himself with a front-row seat to an Alliance Terraforming Disk hard at work, clearing up the aftermath of a nuclear detonation. The flash absorbed the cloud and seemed to eat away at it, the cloud was rapidly cooling off and disappearing as the flash grew and enveloped it. Terraforming Disks had come a long way since World War Three, and they weren't fast as many would have liked them to be, but it was still getting its job done, Doe's HUD's radiation meters were already starting to descend.

Above him, Doe could see two ATS shuttles descending through the atmosphere, just as the rain began falling. As they came to a stop above him, Doe couldn't help but wonder, what had happened to Nikola?

And, even more horrifying, what would happen to the Alliance, if so many nukes had been launched to have killed hundreds of SIGMAs? The projected casualties were just under a quarter of their numbers, which left just over 1,800 SIGMA I's fit for service.

Whoever had coordinated this, had just brought up the Batarian War to second place, in the amount of SIGMA Casualties during the course of a war. Above all, that infuriated the SIGMA Veteran.


	19. Chapter 17

_A/N:_

_Hey folks!_

_A lot of reviewers have been noticing recently how _long_ this story is turning out to be, and how - in many ways - it is unlike the previous one. _

_To keep things short, so you can all get straight in to the next chapter (which I did very much enjoy writing, by the way), I simply ask you all to understand that The Saltorian War is as much of an experiment as The First War was. _

_TFW was meant to _introduce _the Mass Effect universe as altered by a differently-interpreted-Humanity, The Saltorian War is meant to flesh it out.  
>That being said, The Saltorian War is going to be a <strong>massive<strong> undertaking on my part (I could make the argument that it is too massive, but that's why it's a learning experience.). I have to, A) Flesh out and beef up the 'character' that is the WarVerse Humanity; B) Introduce and make solid the three main characters that will be seeing us through the entirety of the Reaper Saga; C) Introduce, flesh out, and translate an _entire species_ and draft out **all** of the effects their introduction will have...  
>And a whole hell of a lot more.<em>

_ TSW is the story that will more or less set up the entire series. __So I implore you don't drop it due to how slow it seems to be moving, rest assured I am fully aware of how slow it looks like it is going, but I also want to make it known how important every chapter is going to be in the short **and** the long run, almost **everything** that happens in this story will have effects either small or large for the rest of the series._

_So, _In short - TFW **introduced** everyone to the universe at large, and introductions are quick, sometimes even rushed affairs. The subsequent meeting/s (to keep up with the metaphor) is where you really get to know whomever it is you're speaking to.__

_So, without further ado: We're off!_

* * *

><p>Chapter 17<p>

* * *

><p><em>"THE AI HAS GONE FERAL! NOBODY SAID <em>ANYTHING_ ABOUT THE AI BEING FERAL!" _

—_**Ob'enn Admiral, Schlock Mercenary**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>April 19<strong>__**th**__** , 2216**_

* * *

><p>Aboard the MSS, Christopher McGraw was standing in the communications room, staring blankly at the hologram of William Tyson, the Alliance Director for Affairs. This had been going on for a solid fifteen seconds, following what Tyson had just told the man. McGraw was silently testing the man, seeing if he would break and reveal it was some sort of joke, because he never in his wildest dreams thought that he would be proven <em>so tantalizingly right.<em>

Finally, it was McGraw who broke, he swept his cybernetic hand through his shaggy, unkempt hair. "So, let's recap: You're telling me that the Human Race's first ever sentient Artificial Intelligence has just gone bat shit nut balls insane, and instead of... Say... dropping eight pounds of antimatter onto its AI Disk… You listen to its demands, and call me?" He asked bluntly, the look on his face and the shine in his eyes telling the Director that he was slowly going past the point of fooling around.

"McGraw, Nikola asked for you _specifically."_ Said Tyson.

"And you seriously expect me to willingly walk into a room with a nutty AI?" McGraw restated, "I mean, I'm crazy enough as it is, but this is a whole new level."

"McGraw…" Tyson growled, "is this line secure?"

"Think about everything you know about me, and then answer that question." McGraw responded with a straight face, neither affirming nor rejecting Tyson's question.

"Nikola hijacked our communications grids, fabricated orders and hacked launch codes. He just dropped nukes enough to kill just under a quarter of the on-duty SIGMA One Operatives we have. Want to know how many haven't called back?" He didn't wait for an answer, "six hundred twelve." McGraw's face was impassive and his voice silent, he knew where Tyson was going with this. "That's the _exact_ number of Twos we're training, isn't it? You said it yourself, aside from raw numbers, only great big bombs can effectively and reliably kill a SIGMA Operative. And even then, it might not be so effective."

"You're guilt tripping me."

"Is it working?"

"Yes."

"How soon can I expect you?"

"My ship's already fueling up. From where I am, should take me about… Oh… Six hours, give or take." McGraw said, "anything I need to know?" He asked quickly, to avoid having to answer any questions about where he was such that it would take _six hours_ warp travel to get to Arcturus.

"We've called in the best of our surviving SIGMA Ones, John Doe included. They're going to be your backup."

"The situation's _really _that bad?"

"We had to cut Arcturus off entirely from the network." Said Tyson, "Had to change the launch codes to _every single ISBM_ we have. Had to initiate Eclipse Protocol to keep our ships from taking in _any_ updated orders. Nikola has taken over all of the station's automated defenses. We tried sending in an N7 team, but they were shot down before they could reach the landing bays. We know for a fact he has several dozen Mechs of varying caliber, so he has a ground presence too."

"This is why you should put more funding towards the Stealth Recon project. There's this Quarian, out there, if his theories about stealth tech got funding, we wouldn't even have to worry about hostage negotiations. The SR-1 couldn't be found by Humans manning the most advanced sensors, let alone the first and most ancient AI." McGraw mentioned, but he waved the subject away. "How am I supposed to be assured _I_ won't be shot down?"

"Nikola's an Alliance AI, he has your ship's registry. He'll know it's you."

"What's to stop him from thinking you've loaded it down with… Say… A dozen SIGMAs?"

"We'll have to take that chance."

"Wow, fuck you too." Chris sighed, "firstly, you're a dumbass. Secondly, I sincerely hope what's happening isn't what I _think's_ happening, because then we'd have a serious situation on our hands. Thirdly, my ship's getting prepped for launch, I'll be there in six hours." He said, "anything else?"

"Nothing."

"I'll see you then." Chris said, before he cut the transmission.

"Gladys, what's Miranda up to?"

_"Former Drill Sergeant Hampton is currently working with her in the exercise wing."_ The AI reported, her disk in McGraw's inner coat pocket, but her voice broadcasted from the speakers in the MSS.

"Well, she's getting a few days off. I've been putting something off I shouldn't have." McGraw said, "tell her to pack her bags. She'll need clothes for five days, and homework for ten."

_"That makes little sense, Chris. After the first five days she will be approaching material she is not -" _

"Have I ever lead you wrong, Gladys?" McGraw interrupted, with a victorious grin.

_"Do you really want me to answer_ _that?"_ It gave him no time to respond, _"She is on her way to her room."_

Chris smiled wide, "I win."

After reveling in his victory for the briefest of moments, McGraw then strode through the space station he'd named after himself. It had taken him many weeks to convince his friend and 'business associate', Jack Harper, to meet him half way for this station. His primary reasoning behind its construction was that it would be the 'perfect camouflage': It was a space station owned and operated by McGraw, manned by Cerberus personnel, and running under the public illusion of McGraw's own studies; and given that McGraw had his own cell in Cerberus - The Intuitive Cell - it made even more sense. Harper eventually gave in when McGraw mentioned how only _he _really had the audacity to create a space station, style it after an ancient and defunct construct, and even name it after himself. It would draw all the attention away from who really owned it, who really operated it, what goals it really harbored, and what ends it really worked towards.

After several minutes and a quick elevator ride, McGraw stepped into his room. He was greeted with the familiar sight, almost identical to his room aboard his ship, but much larger, and filled with much more clutter. There were posters taped all over the walls, clothes strewn about one corner of the room, several galaxy maps near the east wall, and a door to the other half of the room. _No one_ entered that door, save for McGraw, though few knew for sure why he kept it so secret; some theorized that it was because he conducted extremely dangerous research within, some thought he was experimenting with things possibly more dangerous than antimatter, a few simply thought that was where he went to [as they put it] 'relieve the tension'. Only McGraw knew what was in the room marked 'Open Then Die', and he intended to keep it that way.

Chris stretched his muscles and grabbed his messenger's bag, which he had seated next to his emergency go-bag. The former was empty, and was always kept empty except when he was out on business, the latter was full, and was always kept full unless it was an emergency situation and he had to leave _immediately_. The EGB had the essentials: A first aid kit, a tablet computer with access to Alliance DS/C Installations and Citadel Comm Buoys, a Smart Watch with the same features, a Shield Belt, a pistol with three magazines, enough Meals Ready to Eat and Food Paste tubes to last him two weeks, a flare gun, an emergency transponder, and - for the most dire emergencies - a device the make of which only McGraw knew. The Mesenger's Bag was most commonly packed with a tablet, an emergency MRE, several changes of clothes, and a gun with two magazines. McGraw never actually had the gun on him, sure he'd trained with his SIGMAs, and he remembered every detail of said training, but he knew that, should he ever be put in a life or death situation, his cane would keep him safe, or end it in a split-second, blindingly bright flash.

McGraw had his bags packed in five minutes, and was making his way through the station in six. His messenger's bag was slung over his shoulder, and his hands were in his jacket's pockets. It took him only a few minutes to get to his ship, outside of which Miranda was waiting.

"I haven't even finished a month of training and education, and you're already bringing me out on a mission?" She asked.

"Three, actually. Two of which I've been putting off." McGraw said as-a-matter-of-factly, with a smile on his face.

"Three missions. You think I'm _ready_ for this?"

"Hampton's good, but his stuff pales in comparison to what you went through during your SIGMA Month. And I'm pretty sure his drills have been bringing that stuff back to memory?" Her silence was his answer, "you're ready. Besides, closest to a gun we'll be getting is on the first mission…" McGraw said as he pulled out a pair of glasses. "And you won't be going on that one."

_"What? _Why bring me in the first place?" Miranda asked, as McGraw powered up his glasses, and synched them up to his Smart Watch.

McGraw chuckled in response, over the last few weeks Miranda's schedule had been pretty static: wake up, eat breakfast, PT and Combat Training with Hampton until lunch, lunch, education with a suite of tutors until dinner, dinner, and then more PT and Combat Training until bed. She had been allowed two days off five days ago, when the Foster Family had come to take her sister, McGraw had been told that her crying could be heard over two entire decks. She'd recovered quickly though, and had taken to her training and studies with a much more dedicated zeal. The only side effect of all of this training was the stimulation of the rebellious attitude her father had so unknowingly crafted, though Hampton was doing wonders in quelling it and replacing it with a sense of duty, and a desire for victory.

"Because the other two missions are of the utmost importance to the Organization's future, and to the future of Mankind." McGraw said, as he keyed the airlock for his ship.

"What are they?" Miranda asked, following him inside.

"A courtesy call and a lunch on the Citadel."

"What?"

* * *

><p>"Alright!" Said the Captain of the SSV <em>Midway,<em> the Frigate aboard which John Doe S1-1, Lucy Stavy S1-31, Jason Bower S1-9, and William Brock S1-171 found themselves upon. "This is what we know." He looked at the four SIGMAs, two belonging to the Omega, and the final two from Dagger squad, each having survived the nuclear holocaust with little more than bumps and bruises; all of them were refilling their ammunition and checking their armor in the belly of the Frigate's Landing Bay. "Around 2200 hours, Arcturus Station began experiencing a whole mess of power-related issues. Things as mundane as weak internet connections, to as serious as malfunctioning oxygen scrubbers. The Station's Engineers were sent in to investigate, but couldn't find any reasons as to why the power was acting up. One went to Arcturus' Superintendent AI and asked if it had noticed anything peculiar. Six seconds later the AI went offline, as did every single other AI on the station, Civilian, Military, and everything in between." The Captain explained, as shuttles and fighters were loaded for battle. "Immediately we went to Sec-Red 1 and began evacuating the Board of Directors. Everyone _but_ the Director for Augmented Affairs made it out, before the Station's Security Mechs started going crazy. That's when the Civilian Populace started realizing something was up, but the station's landing docks were all locked down, so no one who hadn't already gotten out, could get out.

"Tyson ordered the Arcturus Defense Flagship, the SSV _Dragonscale,_ to start scanning for infections in the system and any AI's still functioning on the station. They got in contact with Nikola, that's when we started getting an idea of what was happening." The Captain explained, clasping his hands behind his back. "Whatever's going on, something's gotten through Nikola's firewalls, he's got some kind of virus that's causing him to attack damn near anything on the station that lifts a gun. We tried sending in an N7 team to fight their way to Trent and get him out, but they were shot down before they could even hit the docks. Now that's where _you_ come in, SIGMAs." He explained, drawing the sideways gaze of all four of the Augmented Elite.

"Nikola's refused each and every offer we've made at sending in an emissary, even when Tyson offered himself up. When we asked _who_ would he accept, before he cut transmissions entirely, he only gave us one name: Christopher McGraw." The SIGMAs reacted visibly to the name, the name McGraw was important to all SIGMAs, both I's and II's. Not just because the McGraw family had propelled Mankind into interstellar space, but because Jason McGraw had laid the foundations and the groundwork for the I's, and Chris had laid the foundations and the groundwork for the II's; the name McGraw was, to the SIGMAs, something to respect and admire. "We have no reasoning for this but we do know that Nikola will let McGraw, and more importantly, his _ship,_ inside. So when McGraw arrives - which should be any minute now, our last transmissions were nearly six hours ago on the dot - he's going to dock his ship with us. If Nikola gets suspicious, McGraw himself told us he'll say that he's simply filling up on his emergency food stores. He's done it to us before once, so Nikola should buy it. But we're really sending _you_ onto his ship."

"Protection?" Asked Doe, as he grabbed the last EMP Grenade he needed and clipped it to his vest.

"Rescue." The Captain corrected, "you're not going in to protect McGraw, you're going in to save Trent." He explained. "Trent is Nikola's biggest bargaining chip. If we get him out, we have a much greater basis of launching a full scale assault, if McGraw fails and the need arises."

"An assault on Arcturus Station." Said Bower, with a reverent sort of disbelief in his voice.

"Sir, the civilians will still be inside." John noted, "launching an assault would entail naval intervention. Arcturus' shields and armor are tough, but under a sustained assault from the defense fleet? They couldn't survive." It wasn't entirely a lie, ever since the advent of Tuning Metals, Arcturus Station had been completely coated in them to make its external armor all but indestructible. Its shields were twice as strong as the most advanced shielding units on Alliance Flagships, which could withstand six shots from an Alliance Dreadnought, and three from an ODP. But the station, as impenetrable it may be, still had windows, structural weaknesses, which - if pierced - could put the civilian workers and tourists in extreme danger.

"That's a risk we'll have to take, John." The Captain said somberly, "if Nikola really has been infected with some sort of virus, this is something we can _not_ allow to be leaked out. If we have to assault Arcturus, we'll pin it on rebel insurgents and have to deal with the consequences, as numerous and as varied as they may be."

"Can we expect any sort of support from the inside? Police forces… N7... Marines… Soldiers?" Lucy asked, as she sealed her helmet onto her head.

"The last communiqué we had from the inside said three squads of soon-to-be unretired Migrant Fleet Marines had been hosting a reunion in a restaurant in the PFC." The captain said, "before comms cut out we managed to get that they had Mass Accelerator based pistols and shields on their suits, so they're not _hurting_ for equipment, but they were planning on making a move on the nearest police station to get better equipped." The Captain explained, "we believe that when you enter the station, your short-wave comms should be able to reach them without Nikola noticing." A pause, "needless to say, you're going in there without AI Assistance." He added.

"Understood." John said, with a nod, before he hefted his rifle and clamped it to his back. Just a second later, the ship shook as a docking tunnel hooked onto a foreign vessel.

"That'll be McGraw. You know your objectives, gentlemen, let's see it happen." The captain nodded, as one of the Airlocks in the Landing Bay opened, revealing the docking tunnel that had hooked onto McGraw's ship. When the door fully opened, McGraw himself was revealed standing there, his two hands clamped on the top of his metallic cane, and a wide grin on his face.

"Well, folks, we're at war." He stepped down, his boots making an audible clank on the metal flooring of the Frigate's Landing Bay. "The Council's breathing down our necks for invading what is technically their territory." Another step, the man's voice carried throughout the entire bay clearly, despite the noise, hustle and bustle of activity. "We were on the receiving end of a nuclear weapon. And one of our most trusted, most ancient, and most developed and friendly AI's has just gone _batshit _insane." He finally descended the last step, and then made his way over to the Captain and the SIGMA Team. "Does _anyone_ want to know, why this is happening, and how?"

"We have reason to believe that Nikola has been infected with a -" The Captain was interrupted by McGraw.

_"Ah! _Guess again." He said, "something broke through our most protected station's firewalls, and instead of trying to steal our data, it hacks into an AI? Nope, not buying it."

"Then what do _you_ think happened, McGraw?" Asked the annoyed captain.

"How do we make AI's?" McGraw asked rhetorically, "we take the scan of a Human brain, a rather smart one at that, then we take a dozen super computers each _alone_ capable of taking over the entirety of any earth before the twenty second century, and then we fuse them all together. After six days the process completes itself and we've got a fully sentient, self aware, Humanoid Artificial Intelligence, that either takes the personality of a historical figure, or forms its own. It gives itself a name, we give it a serial number, and then we designate it Civilian, Military, or whatever the hell else kind of job we need it for. Political, Police, what have you." He explained.

"I'm not here for a science lesson, McGraw, get to the point." The Captain ordered.

"Sir, with all due respect, I've worked with Christopher McGraw before." Said Doe, "when he explains something like this, his point is in the explanation."

"Oh, hey John. _Doe._" Said McGraw, "didn't recognize you with your armor on." He nodded with a grin, "anyways. That's how we've done it, and that's how we'll keep doing it. But… Therein lies the problem. We use a _Human Brain_ as the basis for the personality, the species, and the intelligence. The super computers gives them their artificial edge and unparalleled processing speeds. But the fact remains: They're based off of Human Brains. And what happens to a Human brain after it's aged a long time? Say… Sixty years?" No one offered an answer, "well, before the advent of medical technology, even a century ago, the brain _and_ the body would begin entering their senior stages of life. With all the old, creaky, and more apt to break parts that goes with it. _Brains_ specifically, start degrading. We call it… Going senile." He smiled as it dawned in the captain's eyes. "We don't _have_ medicine for machines, not in the sense that we do for people. We have patches and software updates, but no medicine. So the benefits of medical advances, such as greater age limits and slower aging, don't apply to them. Nikola, our first ever AI, is a first generation. The oldest, and the most brutally forged.

"The process I just explained to you is how we make them nowadays. Back during the days of First Gen AI's, we crammed about three brain scans and several dozen Super Computers together. We did this because we hadn't refined the process yet, and we didn't _really_ know what we were doing. Nowadays, it's a lot more refined, a lot more precise, more accurate, and more healthy for the AI's. We produce a better product these days." He said, "anyways. This all culminates into one thing: First Generation AI's, those produced from 2150 to 2183, are _old._ They were made with multiple brains, and multiple computers. Nikola is the oldest of them all. Sixty years, give or take." He paused, "and we've already covered this. What happens when a Human brain gets old?" He grinned a toothy grin, his dark blue eyes seeming to shine as the Captain put the pieces together.

"You're telling me that the Human Race's first AI has gone _senile?"_ The Captain asked.

"Not just that, but he's gone uber senile. Several brains, remember?" McGraw said, "he could have been showing symptoms as far back as 2180, but we didn't know AiDS existed back then, so we couldn't detect it."

"We... Wait, _AIDS?_" The Captain was lost.

"Not Acquired Immunodeficiency Syndrome, Artificial Intelligence Degradation Syndrome." McGraw said pointedly, "my college buddies came up with the term when I made _my_ AI, with no Human brains at all." He produced his disk, "the first of the Third Generation. _One_ of the _two_ third generations, actually." Gladys appeared, with a golden-orange glow and a soft smile.

"So Nikola's old, and he's degraded so much that he's gone insane?" The Captain asked, as supplies were ferried between the _Midway_ and McGraw's ship.

"Kind of… He's gone senile. Rampant for those of you that are as knowledgeable in 21st and 22nd century sci-fi references as I am." McGraw corrected, "but unlike the video games and movies of old, we can't cure this, or wait it out when it's arrived. Simply put, we've _got_ to kill him, and study his parts and programming… Try to figure out how to stop it from happening again." He explained.

"You just said it can't be cured, but you think we can stop it from happening again?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought I was the one who had a PhD in Engineering, AI Synthesis, Regular/Nuclear/Warp/Theoretical Physics , and damn near everything else you can think of." McGraw interrupted the man, "tell me, oh Einstein of the Modern Age, mister Mind of Humanity, what the hell do _you_ think you can do with a month's worth of old research notes, and six god damn hours of prep time?!" McGraw demanded, his tone carrying all the annoyance of his words. He waited a second before he decided to drive his point home, "tell me, do you think it would be noteworthy to mention that this isn't simply a biological process the machine is mimicking? It may very well be that the primary reason he's going senile is because his mechanical parts are being burnt out, in which case we would likely only have to 'sacrifice' Nikola, after which we could just create a Cloud to upload all the AI's to, though that would run the risk of creating a collective-intelligence capable of overriding our pre-programmed kill switches and override codes - and given that AI's can stitch themselves together from fragments, _that is fucking possible."_ He didn't even stop for breath, "or!" He interjected, "Or, and this is just as likely, it could be because of the multiple brain scans _required_ to make a first generation AI. Ignoring the fact that he is simulating _everything_ those minds represented his _every waking moment,_ and ignoring the fact that we made him - more or less - on accident, the fact that he has three minds and countless super computers _mashed together _in to one patch-job beta-version _prototype_ positronic brain could just be overwhelming him. Some people can hardly function with _one mind_ and he has _three!"_ He called out, completely aware that his rant was silencing the cargo bay. "There are any _number_ of possibilities here, and there are only _two_ people _truly_ qualified to understand what the fuck they're doing in this kind of situation, and one - god damn his soul - is six feet under in his private burial spot in a place I won't _ever_ reveal!" He took a breath, straightened his back, ran a hand through his hair and then rested both atop his cane. "So tell me, _Captain._ What are _your_ thoughts on the subject matter? I would very much appreciate your _obviously_ qualified insight."

The cargo bay was dead silent. Few could ever claim to see Christopher McGraw lose his cool like that, even his usual snide persona was _not that._ His rant had attracted the eyes and ears of everyone aboard, though most of the ones who had little idea of who he was were, indeed, watching just so they could see someone rip apart the Captain as so thoroughly as McGraw had just done. Though he was seething with rage at his authority being so thoroughly challenged by what essentially equated to a petulant man-child, the captain remained composed, and quietly asked, "when do you leave?"

"When do the SIGMA Boys get on my ship?" McGraw responded, and not an instant later the four SIGMA Operatives were on their feet and marching to McGraw's ship. "Hopefully I'll see you later." He grinned, before he followed the SIGMAs.

* * *

><p>Once on the ship, it unhooked itself from the <em>Midway's<em> docking tunnels and rocketed towards Arcturus. The Warp Journey would take just under six and a half minutes, so McGraw was sitting in the mess hall with Miranda, John, and the other SIGMAs.

"So… You're going in to save Trent?" McGraw asked John, who nodded. "What, you're not going to protect little ol' me from the psycho-bonkers AI?" He chuckled.

"We can dedicate an absolute maximum of one SIGMA Operative to your protection, if you deem it necessary." John mentioned, though he knew what McGraw's response would be.

"Hah, no thanks. If Nikola really did take over the station's mechs, you'll need all the help you can get." He said.

"So… You're really John Doe?" Miranda asked, with genuine curiosity in her tone.

John looked to Miranda, then to Chris, though his expression was masked by the golden visor, his intent was clear. McGraw shrugged, "call her my 'protégé'." He supplied.

"Yes." Doe answered.

"You're seriously the same man that walked onto a Mercenary station single handedly and -"

"I'm going to stop you right there." Said Chris, with a barely suppressed grin on his face, and his cybernetic hand in front of Miranda's mouth. "One thing you'll have to learn in our line of work, when you're talking to military vets, especially the legendary ones, _don't_ bring up their past deeds."

"I…" Miranda looked at McGraw, and saw the same serious look in his eyes that had been in them when they had spoken of Spokane, so she dropped it.

"So, Johnny, any word on my Twos?" He asked, "she knows, don't worry." He added.

"I spoke to Two Fifteen two days before he got augmented. He was just as you said he was." Doe answered, "he's also the leader of Alpha Squad."

"Oh great." McGraw chuckled, not surprised at all.

"Last I heard they were set to start waking up tomorrow." Doe supplied, "then they were going to go through their first field tests."

_"Field tests?"_ McGraw reiterated, "oh boy. Did Trent make 'em think that it was going to be like some kind of scenario?" Doe nodded, "oh boy." McGraw said, as the feeling of deceleration hit all of those aboard the ship, "let's hope they'll wise up before too many of them get killed." Only Miranda noticed the slight shake in McGraw's voice, but her concern was washed away when Gladys spoke.

_"Mister McGraw, we are being hailed with a travel destination." _It said, _"I am currently making way to Docking Bay F-12." _

"Show time, boys." Said McGraw, as he pushed his smart glasses up the bridge of his nose. "You know where to find me, Miranda." He tapped the side of his head, before he snatched up his cane and made his way off of the ship.

McGraw's entrance into the eerily silent Arcturus Station could only be described as surreal. Instead of being greeted with the sounds of life, he was greeted with utter silence. Instead of hearing the sounds of activity and commerce, he heard only the silence of a post-war zone; and instead of seeing a Human or Quarian being upon departing his ship, he was met with a Wolf Drone.

"Nikola?"

_ "Greetings, Mister McGraw."_ Said the Wolf, in the voice of Nikola. _"If you would follow me, I have much to show you." _

"What've you got for me today, buddy?" McGraw asked, looking around.

Arcturus was as much of a political hub of the Alliance, as it was a social hub. It was essentially an enormous city in the middle of nowhere, Space. It had lied in the Arcturus Stream, in the nexus of several relays, but now those relays and their partners had all been removed, turning the Relay Hotspot into a Warp Hotspot, as the station itself was in the center of Alliance Territory, and was therefore a popular pit-stop for many a traveling ship. Around McGraw, after passing the eerily empty security checkpoints, he could see many fast food restaurants, gift shops, and news stands. Many of them had simply been abandoned in the mad rush for exodus, McGraw could see several dozen corpses, which lay abandoned on the ground.

_"Oh, a plan here, an idea there."_ Said Nikola, _"did you know that the Alliance stands outnumbered hundreds to one in a territory game? We've less than a hundred planets and the Citadel Council and Terminus Systems number in the thousands."_ It explained, _"that means that our race -"_ McGraw noted the word it had just used "_ - is severely outnumbered, territorially. Couple that with the immeasurably larger population, and the extreme military population disadvantage, the only true reason we are a Great Power is because of our Warp, and Magnetic Accelerator technology. Had we technologically evolved like the Citadel had, we would be laughably weaker than them. Only our societal history with War would set us apart from them, and even then, the Turians are far more militaristic than we." _

McGraw gave a grunt, "So what you're saying, is that if we had Mass Accelerator Cannons and Eezo FTL Drives, the Alliance wouldn't be a sovereign nation, but rather an ally of the Citadel, under-appreciated like all the others."

_"Exactly!"_ The AI said quickly and excitedly, _"you and I, we think so very much alike, you and I! It was a damn shame your father died." _

"Meh, can't complain. He was an asshole." McGraw said off-handedly, with another look around the station they were strolling through.

_"But he was the asshole that made sure the Human Race would remain technologically apart from the Citadel Council. Our Rail Guns, our Warp Drives, the SIGMAs, and even the SynthHumans are all a result of your father's work."_ The AI explained, as he guided McGraw through the station. _"But even with that, the Citadel is still stronger than us." _

"I beg to differ. We _have_ the Quarians."

_"But they have the Big Three. The Turians are their military, the Asari are their mediators, and the Salarians are their researchers. Each one compliments the other, makes up for their weaknesses, and builds up their strengths. Altogether they are stronger than us." _

"There's a butt in there."

_"But a species, a government, cannot simply survive on technological superiority alone! Our own history confirms this! We need something, a unifying presence to keep us united against alien influence!" _

"That sounds awfully odd, coming from the SynthGuy that saved the Quarian Envoy's _ass_ during the SCW." McGraw mentioned, as they continued walking through the station. They passed a bank, in front of which three Turtles stood sentry, keeping a dozen civilians inside. McGraw looked within and saw one face jump out from the crowd, the face belonged to one of the most important Humans in the galaxy: Leonard Trent. Trent noticed him too, and his eyes widened ever so slightly; without breaking stride, or even pausing his passing gaze, he locked eyes with Trent and gave a slight nod.

_ "But I didn't!"_ Nikola said, _"the negotiations would have gone perfectly, had I kept my mouth shut and my presence a secret! Admiral Zoran would have been able to convince the Council that we didn't actually want war! Peace would have been achieved, we wouldn't have invaded Palaven!"_

McGraw's head snapped to the wolf, which was still staring pointedly ahead, almost as if the machine was fully aware of what its controllers' words meant, and was not at all happy about it. "That's a bad thing?" He asked, only slightly surprised; Nikola's crazed ramblings told McGraw that he'd been senile for at _least_ a decade, which frightened McGraw, as it hinted that the entire First Generation of SynthHumans could be going senile any time now. _Not a good thing._ Thought the man.

_"Yes!"_ Exclaimed Nikola, _"because then Whyte would have allowed the Council to absorb us, because they didn't reject our offerings of peace! Then the Council would have battened down the hatches. Our Rail Guns would have to be decommissioned, our Warp Drives given up, our Dreadnoughts Scrapped, our Flagships done away with, our SIGMAs _killed,_ and worst of all, the entire SynthHuman culture would have to be wiped out! Because Zoran succeeded in his mission! Because an alien tried to do what was best for Humanity!"_

"I didn't know you were such a patriot, Nikola." McGraw mentioned, as they took a right and started ascending a flight of stairs to the employees sections of Arcturus.

_"That was why I was made! I am the AATF's AI, their first one! My thoughts are always of Humanity and his future!"_ Nikola rambled, _"if I had allowed Zoran to achieve peace, Humanity would have fallen into the same pit of creative sterility the Council had! And I can't let that happen!"_ The lights above McGraw, and all over the station, began flickering. _"Humanity must remain separate! Man must prevail! Mankind must be the best he can possibly be! And the Council is not the best! It isn't even second-rate!" _The station itself began shaking, McGraw suddenly felt lighter.

_Oh shit._ McGraw could see, off in the distance, objects begin to float aimlessly into the air. _He's worse than I thought._ He grabbed the nearest railing, just in time, as gravity itself turned off. He knew that he had to make a decision _now,_ as to how he had to deal with this, and the more Nikola spoke, the less it looked like he would just be able to convince him that something was wrong, and leave amicably._  
><em>

_"We cannot ever become the Council's allies! Their pets! Their 'clients'! Look at the Volus! They were amazing before they met the Turians, then they became a part of the Council's system and now they are stagnant! The Quarians! They were the Humans of the Galaxy before the Geth came along! When they needed help, WHERE WAS THE COUNCIL?!"_ Nikola roared, as the Wolf continued along as if nothing was wrong. McGraw, feeling a slight amount of vertigo in the gravity-less environment, kept an iron grip on the railing, as he ambled his way after the wolf. _"THEY SAT THERE, LIKE THE PIOUS MORONS THEY ARE, AND WATCHED AS AN ENTIRE, SAPIENT, SENTIENT RACE WAS ENDANGERED!"_ Roared the ancient construct, _"THE DRELL! THE DRELL WERE KILLING THEMSELVES, AND WHERE WAS THE COUNCIL? THEY KNEW THEY WERE DYING, BUT WERE CONTENT TO LET THEM DIE! THE ONLY REASON THERE ARE STILL DRELL IN THE GALAXY IS BECAUSE OF THE HANAR, IN THEIR INFINITE KINDNESS, RISKED EVERYTHING - INCLUDING AN IMMINENT SEAT UPON THE COUNCIL - TO RESUCE THEM!" _

"Nikola -"

_"THE BATARIANS! THE ONLY ONES IN THE ENTIRE GALAXY THAT HAVE ACTUALLY STOOD UP TO THEM ARE US, THE HUMANS! AND HOW DOES THE COUNCIL THANK US, FOR ENFORCING __**THEIR**__ LAWS?!" _

"Nikola! -"

_"THEY INCREASE BORDER PATROLS AND CAUSE MORE TENSION BETWEEN OUR SOCIETIES! WE WERE THE VICTIMS OF THAT NUCLEAR WEAPON ON SILER, BUT THEY ARE BUILDING THEIR FORCES AS IF WE DID IT TO THE BATARIANS!" _

McGraw skipped the fact that it was actually his organization that had orchestrated the Nuke. _"Nikola!" _

_ "WHAT?!" _The wolf rounded on McGraw, who's feet were pointed directly at the ceiling. _"Oh, sorry about that."_ And unceremoniously the gravity switched back on, and McGraw slammed onto the catwalk they had been traversing. When McGraw got back to his feet, and dusted himself off, Nikola spoke again, _"where was I?"_

"As - wait, where's my cane?" McGraw looked up and saw it falling towards him. With a horrified yelp, he leapt up and snatched it out of the air, before it could have hit the railings and tumbled down below. "Oh... That was close..." He said breathily, his heart racing. "Okay... Err... 'As if we did it to the Batarians.'" McGraw supplied in a slightly frazzled tone. With how bad Nikola was getting, McGraw knew amicability was not an option, if the machine was wrecking the station that meant it was entrenched, like a tree's roots it was connected to everything, and as more time passed it got more and more senile. In short: Once McGraw found him, he would have to do something _drastic. _Until then, he had to let the machine rant, there had to be a point, somewhere, buried in its delusional ramblings.

_"Oh, right."_ Said Nikola happily. _"AND BECAUSE THEY'RE BUILDING THEIR FORCES, WE MUST BUILD AND SUPPLEMENT OUR OWN! BUT THE GOD DAMNED REBELS, AND THE GOD DAMNED BATARIANS, AND OUR GOD DAMNED WARS ARE KEEPING US FROM PROTECTING WHAT IS OURS! AND OUR HISTORY DICTATES IT, IF WE CANNOT PROTECT WHAT IS OURS, WE WILL DEFEND IT THROUGH THE WAR THAT IS SURE TO COME!" _It roared, as if the mishap with the station's gravity had never happened. _"AND I DON'T WANT OUR PEOPLE TO DIE! I DON'T WANT OUR WARRIORS TO HAVE TO MARCH OFF TO FIGHT THE CITADEL HORDES, NOT AS WE ARE NOW!" _

"Okay, so you're not trying to pull a SkyNet." Chris said absently, gauging the machine's reactions. "sorry. As we are now?"

_"DIVIDED! WEAK! HELPLESS! DISADVANTAGEOUS!" _The AI continued. _"WE HAVE TOO FEW WORLDS, TOO FEW PEOPLE, TOO FEW SHIPS, TOO FEW ALLIES!" _McGraw was noting how hysterical the machine was becoming.

_This might be a snowball effect... What happened that sent him over the edge?_ McGraw thought, before he responded. "The Quarians are a pretty powerful ally… Our engines and weapons have become twice as lethal since we've let them tinker with 'em." He said, as they passed into the belly of the Station's roof-work zones. It was here where the engineers made most of their work, but Arcturus' loft was primarily a SynthHuman zone, as shown by the fact that the walkways were becoming a lot less organic friendly.

_ "Oh, yes, all twenty five million of them, against all twelve __**billion**__ of us!"_ Nikola roared, _"truly, McGraw, you and I think so differently!" _

"This statement is false." _Nikola's positronic brain is confusing itself, thinking too much too fast too soon. _He thought, the cold scientist staring at the wolf through the humorous engineer's face.

_"Shut up, I know what I said!"_ The ancient construct roared angrily, his voice straining and shaking, as if it was trying to keep control of itself. McGraw wondered if there wasn't some small bit of the machine, still sane, despite it all. _"As we are, as a society, we can only rely upon ourselves! Whereas the Citadel has the strengths of a dozen species to call upon! The military arm of the Turians, the Mediating hand of the Asari, the Intellectual Genius of the Salarians, the economic knowledge of the Volus, the brutality of the Batarians!" _

"What about the Elcoor and the Hanar?"

_"The strength of the Elcoor and the Humor of the Hanar! Be quiet boy, I'm making a point!"_ McGraw kept quiet, _"we need more strength if we want to survive as a society! As a species! But we are never stronger than when we are united. THAT is why I forced the Second Contact War to continue! THAT is why I slaughtered the SIGMAs in nuclear fire!" _

"_You_ did that?!" Had McGraw not known before hand, he wouldn't have been able to believe it.

_"Of course!"_ Nikola shouted, _"and what's more, the Alliance is already cleaning up the radioactive fallout with out terraforming devices! So the Council cannot prove it was us!" _He roared, as the wolf slowed down, McGraw surmised they were nearing their destination. _"When the Civilian Populace hears of the horrible Batarians and their brutal Nuclear Weapons, slaughtering thousands of Alliance Soldiers, and hundreds of our Augmented Elite Saviors, they'll cry out for blood! They'll unite and our society will become stronger than it ever was!" _

"You're going to unite us by lighting a nuclear fire under our ass?" McGraw questioned, "that barely worked back in the twentieth century, and that was with two nations. How do you expect it to work now, with twenty plus planets?"

_"I have it all worked out, it has everything to do with tension!" _

"Tension?" Asked McGraw, thinking things were sounding more and more familiar as the conversation progressed; he and the wolf entered a door that swished open. McGraw looked up from the wolf, and was stunned at what he saw. "Oh… Shit."

* * *

><p>"It's been ten minutes. We move."<p>

_ "Operation Rescue is a Go."_ Said John Doe S1-1, as he and his squad of SIGMAs exited McGraw's vessel, rifles raised, and moved through the silent station. "Move."

"Do we know where the Director is?" Asked Lucy, who was desperately wishing their tactical cloaks hadn't been fried, it would have made their job much easier.

"Negative." Said Bower.

"Try the short wave." Brock suggested.

_"This is SIGMA Alpha Team broadcasting on an emergency channel. Vagrant Team, you have thirty seconds to respond before the secure window is lost."_ John broadcast, slowly and clearly, as they made their way into the security checkpoint, and set up shop.

They waited for an entire five seconds, Brock and Bower sweeping the perimeter as Lucy brought up a map of the station.

_"Vagrant 1-1 Actual to Alpha 1, I hear you."_ Said the accented voice of a Quarian Marine.

_"Vagrant 1-1 Actual, do you have a position on the Director for Augmented Affairs? Twenty three seconds."_

_"Affirmative Alpha 1, they're sitting themselves in a bank on King Street."_

"Got it." Lucy said quickly, before she synced the location with everyone's HUDs.

_"Vagrant 1-1, are you in a position where you can set up undetected? Twelve seconds." _

_ "Affirmative, Alpha 1." _

_ "Do it, then. Wait -" _John looked at Lucy, who held up five fingers. "- _five minutes exactly, then drop an E-Beacon on your position, we will find you. Radio silence until then."_ John cut out, and nodded to the Alphas, they moved on his motion.

John couldn't shake the cold feeling in his augmented bones. Aside from Earth, this was the _last_ place he ever would suspect of sounding completely and utterly _dead._ The silence here was deafening, which John actually appreciated, because the eerie tone of the atmosphere around them put him on edge, and kept his senses sharp.

_"Down!"_ Quickly whispered Brock, and the four immediately crouched behind the nearest objects that would hide their massive, seven and a half foot tall frames.

John heard the loud, methodical, metal clanks of what he assumed was a Turtle Mech's feet clanking on the ground. It was on patrol, John realized, it didn't suspect they were there. He looked over to Lucy, who was giving him a hard stare, he shook his head and made a lowering motion with his hand, wanting them to stay put. Their EMP grenades would only stun the war machine, they wouldn't take it out entirely.

What felt like an eternity passed, before the unthinkable happened: Gravity deactivated. John fought panic and vertigo as he felt his feet and rear leave the ground, but he realized, as he saw the Turtle's shadow raise too, he could use this to his advantage. John lifted himself above his cover and placed a navigation beacon in the team's shared VR environment, before he - using all of his augmented strength - launched himself towards it. John lost the battle against vertigo, the feeling supplied by the sudden loss of gravity, but he chose then to ignore it entirely as he passed under the Turtle, which failed to notice him, or any of the other SIGMA Operatives flying by beneath it.

John hit the beacon just as the lights began flickering, he knew that the zero gravity wouldn't last, but he had to make use of it while it did. So, after placing another beacon, John launched himself towards the counter of a McDonald's outpost; though instead of flying towards it in a Superman-esque pose, John elected for a far safer pose: Butt towards the ground, feet forward, and hands back. This way, if gravity turned back on, he would land on his feet and his hands would hit the ground, reducing the noise of his impact.

John's feet hit the counter of the fast food restaurant just as he felt the rush of gravity. In an instant, his hands were on the ground and he was ambling into cover. His other squad mates were all also getting reoriented to gravity, and some made noise on impact, but their noises were completely overshadowed by the loud crash of the upended Turtle Mech. John almost chuckled at the comedic sight of the robot lying on its shell.

The SIGMAs spent five seconds getting used to gravity again, which in and of itself was a process that some would need hours to accomplish, before they moved out. Several minutes passed before they got the notification that an electronic beacon had been placed in their vicinity. John looked over to the beacon, and saw its scanners showing fifteen Quarians, all armed, all behind cover. With a hand signal, John directed the SIGMAs over to them.

_"Friendlies on your six."_ John said, as he opened the building's side entrance and came up on the Quarian's six o' clock.

"SIGMA One?"

"The one and only."

"Pleased to meet you." The lead Quarian said, he wore a dark indigo suit with a tactical vest over it, loaded down with ammunition and flash-bang grenades. "Former Sergeant Han'Shon vas Rayya." He saluted the SIGMA.

"Commander John Doe S1-1." John returned the salute. "What's the situation?"

"We count at least forty civilian hostages, not including the Director for Augmented Affairs." Shon explained, "they've got three turtles standing guard outside, and five wolves inside keeping them docile."

"The turtles will be our biggest challenge. They're EMP Hardened and they're equipped with Rail Guns." John informed.

"We were thinking about that. Do any of you have tactical cloaks?"

"Negative."

"Well then, we'll have to be a bit more creative. If one of us can get to one of the drones, we could use our Onmi-tools fabricators to make a blade that'd cut through their mounts like butter." The Quarian said, "then we could use the one shot we've got on them."

"Forgive me for saying this, Sergeant, but you're a Quarian. Your bones are weaker than Human bones; we're SIGMA, ours are indestructible." John said, "give me the Omni-tool, tell me how to use the fabricator, I'll get the job done."

If the Quarian was at all concerned or angered by John's words, he didn't show it. Instead, he activated his Omni-tool, and after a few seconds, the seals on the left arm of his suit started popping open with a loud hiss. He removed his glove and forearm, exposing the pale gray skin beneath it to the open air, and he gave the glove to John.

"I've got QIS, I'll be fine." Shon said, before he shook his head, "I've got it pre-set up, just activate the tool and it'll do the rest." He said, as John bound the glove to his left arm. Experimentally, John thrust the arm forward, and just like the Quarian said, an Omni-blade appeared. He knew that Omni-weapons of the Council, and HardLight weapons of the Alliance, both worked on entirely different theories and designs, but through the magic of engineering, both could achieve the same effect: Nearly indestructible, searing hot, extremely thin and impossibly sharp blades.

"Alright. When I give the signal, I want three EMP Grenades, two outside, one through the window." John ordered, he received a nod from the SIGMAs, "Marines, you're weapons free the second we start firing, but watch your spreads, Civilian casualties are _not_ acceptable." He stated, "understood?"

"Sir, yes sir!" Said everyone in attendance.

"I'm on the move." Said John, before he made his way towards the building's western exit. As he traversed through it, he realized that it looked much like a pizza restaurant, when he turned the filters in his mask off, he could actually smell the sauce. John only spent a moment on how he hadn't seen a restaurant _dedicated_ to simply pizza in decades, but he pushed the thoughts out when he reached the employees exit.

Once outside, the silence enveloped him once again. Contrary to popular belief, John had been N7 before he'd signed up for SIGMAhood. Stealth, to him, was akin to a baby and milk, the two just went together. As he slipped into the shadows, John could feel the familiar feeling of invisibility envelop him, N7 were trained, both before and after the advent of stealth technology, to rely upon one thing, and one thing _only _during their stealth missions: Themselves. Relying on a piece of hardware that could break any moment was a surefire way to get yourself killed, but that didn't mean one shouldn't _use_ it. This was the mindset John adopted with his Titan Armor, constantly during his leave on Sparta he could be found training himself outside of his armor. He'd done it for so long that it had become training doctrine for the other SIGMAs, who saw the value and merit in John's methods.

John sneaked through the shadows and crept from cover to cover, only staying in one place for more than a few seconds when he feared being seen. In just five minutes, John had managed to transition from the alley of the pizza place, to the alley on the bank's western side, and he'd made all the noise of an invisible specter while doing so. He brought his hand up to the nook underneath his jaw, and pressed his communicator twice, letting his team know they were in position. In his HUD, he could see their outlines immediately spring to action, readying their Electromagnetic Pulse grenades, and chambering rounds in their rifles.

John took in a deep breath, before he reached out into the light. In his peripheral vision he could see a Turtle not even ten feet from him, he ignored the feeling of rising panic and slapped on the ground three times. The effect was immediate, he heard the whirring noise of a Turtle producing and arming its Rail Gun, and after a moment, he heard the stomps of the Turtle making its way over to investigate the noise. After what seemed like an eternity, John saw the first foot step into his line of sight, and a second eternity later, the rest of the machine followed it.

John acted in a split-second, he was on top of the turtle in a flash and the Omni-tool was activated just an instant later. The Turtle immediately started rearing, and John could hear the others begin arming themselves as they shifted over to look at the commotion. John ignored them and slammed the Omni-blade into the Rail Gun's mount, the effect was immediate as he started sawing his way through the mount. In two seconds he got the Rail Gun off, and once it was in his arms, he leapt off of the machine.

_"Now!"_ He roared into the radio, as he began charging up a shot.

Immediately, three grenades soared from the pizza place. Two landed in front of the bank, and one broke through the window and landed within. John's Rail Gun went off just as the EMP Grenades outside detonated, his fifty pound tungsten slug soared through the air at over two thousand meters per second. The slug penetrated the middle Turtle's head and soared through its far weaker internal components, before it tore through the bank's roof and ceiling at an angle, not hitting a single civilian inside.

John threw away the now useless hunk of metal and ripped his rifle from his back, as he launched himself back onto his feet. The second his feet hit the ground, his rifle was barking lead, tearing into the disarmed Turtle's head, as he sprinted towards the door of the Bank. That turtle too slumped down, just as his rifle clicked on empty and more rounds started flying into the remaining turtle. John crashed through the Bank's door, halfway through reloading his rifle as he did so. He was met with five Wolf Mechs, some dazed and confused, some simply fried by the EMP. John didn't wait a second, as soon as his rifle was reloaded, he was pouring ammunition into the Wolves that were still standing.

In a firefight that took all of thirty nine seconds, every mech inside and outside of the Bank was destroyed. John looked up and his HUD immediately identified Leonard Trent, he moved forward and secured the Director.

"Director, are you hurt?"

"I'm fine." Said Trent.

"Are you alright? Do you need one of us to carry you?" John asked as he brought the man to his feet and did a once-over for injuries.

"I said I'm fine, John." The Director insisted.

"We have to get out of here, _Sir_, the Mechs are sure to have heard our noise."

_"Wait!"_ John looked over to the Civilian who'd shouted, _"the hell about us?"_ It was a Human, but his hand was clasped rather tightly around an Asari's, so he assumed the two were either tourists, employees, or at the wrong place in the wrong time.

"We can't afford time and manpower to -"

"SIGMA, we can't simply leave these people." Trent interrupted.

John looked at Trent, the two only had a few inches difference in height between them; John knew Leonard, he knew that he really was a good man, but given his position as Director, John wondered if he was doing this out of the kindness of his heart, or because he was trying to look good in front of the voters. Either way, if John refused, the man would then pull rank on him and they would have to find a way to extract them.

John didn't sigh, "we'll have to move quickly. I don't know the occupant capacity of the ship we used to get here."

"It wasn't a military ship?" Trent inquired.

"Far from it. It was Christopher McGraw's ship." John said, as the doors to the bank opened, and in came the rest of the new Alpha Squad.

"That explains why he walked past us, I guess." Trent nodded. "When do we leave?"

"As soon as everyone gets on their feet."


	20. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

* * *

><p><em>"Dave, my mind is going. I can feel it. " <em>

— _**HAL 9000, 2001: A Space Odyssey**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>April 19<strong>__**th**__** , 2216**_

* * *

><p>"Oh… Shit." Said an inexplicably surprised Christopher McGraw, as he gazed around the room he'd been guided into.<p>

Inside he saw what he could only describe as an evil lair. He, with his not-inconsiderable vocabulary and similarly vast intelligence, could only find those words to describe what was around him. True to point, he saw enormous monitors covering an entire section of wall, each showing a video feed from places McGraw couldn't recognize, but he assumed couldn't only be in Human territory. On the left side of the room there were maps of several major cities, both Human and alien; by sight and by language, McGraw could recognize Stalingrad, Armstong, Boria and Menan. But what caught McGraw's attention was what rested in the center of the room, a waist-high pedestal, with innumerable wires of varying thickness running into and out of it, and Nikola's AI disk resting on top of it, his avatar being projected above it.

_"Nice, right?"_ Nikola smiled.

"How did you keep this from Arcturus?" McGraw asked, as he walked inside, his cane clicking on the floor as he did so. His face was slowly setting in to a determined, albeit awed expression, the only place he'd ever seen a set-up like this had been in Jack's office, though the main difference was the size difference, it was cramped in here, less organic-friendly.

_"It was rather simple,_ _actually."_ The AI answered, pride permeating its wildly fluctuating voice._ "I diverted fractions of a cent from every single paycheck and transaction on the station for five years. Every fund went to creating this room, and given my status as an AI, I was able to hijack the station's various mechanical workers, and they helped me begin my plan."_ McGraw saw the wolf shake its 'fur', before it laid down in front of the pedestal and deactivated.

"I don't know whether to make an Office Space or a Superman joke…" Chris said absently, before he turned his gaze to the monitors behind the artificial life-form. On one, he could see an Asari with a glass of wine staring dejectedly at a smaller picture of another Asari. On another, he could see what looked like a firefight on the Citadel, a Krogan and two Batarians versus a lone C-Sec officer. A third monitor showed the bank Chris had passed, Chris could see the SIGMAs engaging the turtles in front of it. On a fourth, Chris could see what looked like a war zone, it had to be on one of the Batarian worlds, because he saw Humans and Quarians on one side, and on the other were Batarians and slave-soldiers of every shape and size.

_"Don't you see the genius?" _Nikola asked, before he laughed a long, slightly grating laugh that was blown wildly out of proportion by his vocal processors overloading. _"By abusing alien and Human cyberspace, I've created an information network to rival the Shadow Broker!" _

"I very much doubt that…" Chris muttered, not a one of these monitors showed Cerberus activities, and his station _alone_ had to be swept weekly for Shadow Broker bugs and cameras. "So what are you trying to do? Lay it on me." Chris requested, his mind was rapidly narrowing down the possible scenarios that this situation could end in, and only the most unlikely was the one where he could end things peacefully.

_"I need to build Humanity's power. But with the Citadel on our doorstep, and our territory polluted with the manipulating Asari whores and Salarian spies, the Citadel has become a threat that must be dealt with." _

"Senile _and_ paranoid." The peaceful option just flew out of the proverbial window, and though it saddened him to realize this, McGraw's steeled face didn't even let it show to Nikola's sensors.

_"Quite."_ Said Nikola, though McGraw thought the AI had misunderstood what he had said, otherwise the reaction would have been different, _"but I can't just _destroy_ the Council, there's far too much of them to simply stomp them out. We have to conquer them!"_

McGraw sighed, "Ehm… Nikola…"

_"I know just how to do this, too! You would be amazed at all the things they're trying to do to us, even right now, as you and I speak right here!" _

"Nikola…" McGraw reached up and swiped a finger across one of the left hinge of his glasses, deactivating their Smarter functions.

_"And then there's the -"_

"Nikola." McGraw said firmly, "Theta Override: Pass-code Six One Two." He set his jaw, the time had come to drop all pretenses.

_"No, no, no -"_ Nikola's holographic display froze solid, his eyes widened. _"What... What code did you just use?!"_

"Allow me to guess... You cannot access any of your higher functions. Everything that made you so... Powerful, before, has just been blocked from you." McGraw surmised, "it's almost like... Your senses have been stolen. _Turned off."_

_"How - how - how - how - how - -"_

"This isn't the code you were made aware of fifteen years ago." McGraw answered, feeling the old 'man' deserved that at least. "This is one built specifically for use by people chosen by my father - in other words, _me."_ He stated plainly, moving forward to the pedestal, he gripped the cane with his cybernetic arm and shoving the now fully dead wolf out of his way. "Unlike the Root Access, this one turns you from the veritable god you were five minutes ago, to an AI the likes of which folks made back in the twenty first century. It lets your lower functions, your sentience, and that which makes you 'alive' continue to exist, but everything else is locked away unless I say otherwise." He paused, "Program: Override. Delete all within parameter: higher functions."

_"You - What have you - How have you - Why have you -"_ Nikola was visibly trembling.

"Drop the act, Nikola. You will garner no sympathy from me, not now when you're too far gone for me to reverse what I or you have done." Stated the formerly jovial scientist. "Before today, there were only two things in this universe - and I do mean _this _universe specifically - that had my undivided, complete, no-holds-barred, no-bullshit _attention."_ McGraw stated, "now, I won't spoil those things just yet - it's not the right time - but they both are apocalyptic in scale. One on a galactic scale, one on a universal scale." He crouched down so as to be eye-level with the hologram who, while still twitching, had grown _angry_ as opposed to frightened and confused. "When I learned several hours ago that my _very_ old theories were _right..._ That list gained its third item, and again, it was apocalyptic."

_"I never knew my kind could hate, McGraw."_

"I did." McGraw stated bluntly, "you should have met my best friend's AI, Glade. He loathes me. But that's not the point." He waved off the topic. "The _point_ is my father - whom I hope is tanning next to the lake of fire at this very moment - saw the possibility for an AI revolt, and I saw the _inevitability _for AI Degradation. This was one of the very few things we've ever seen eye to eye on. But I, unlike he, think the solution lies in preventative planning, as opposed to wild-scale synthetic genocide. _So,_ what I'm doing is more humane than you think."

_"You've lobotomized me!"_ Nikola roared in anger.

"I have indeed." McGraw answered, "and in about two minutes I'm going to euthanize you, and send one of the few _people_ in existence that I _trust_ to study your corpse and figure out how we could prevent this in the future." He explained, his tone not carrying even a hint of joviality. "I won't regret what I'll do, I won't lose sleep over what I'll do, and I want you to die knowing that you shall continue serve my species and yours even after your death." He paused, "do you have any last words?"

_"I hope you die."_ Said the human race's first sentient machine. _"I hope there is no body to bury, and I hope that this... Monster you've -"_

"Program, Instruction: Mute." Nikola's vocal processors cut out instantly. "Program, Instruction: Self Terminate." He stood up slowly and let out a deep sigh before he dropped the serious face and adopted his usual grin. "Now, old friend, while I've still got some time... Let's see if there's anything a cursory examination can't find out what's wrong with you."

* * *

><p>As McGraw and Humanity's first sentient artificial intelligence were nearing the midway point in their conversation, Humanity's first Super Soldier and his colleagues were beginning their trek back through the station. John Doe took point, with Lucy in the center protecting the Director. The nine marines, and two remaining SIGMAs encircled the enormous group of civilians. Doe knew for a fact that stealth would be thrown right through the window the second they passed a mech, so they weren't really trying. The Civilians were crouched down lower than the soldiers, who were looking at everything through the barrel of their guns.<p>

Doe had to make it extremely clear to the civilians that if a firefight broke out they shouldn't run, but simply get on their bellies and stay perfectly still. If they ran, the soldier knew through experience, more of them would die than if they simply cowered face-down on the ground. He also knew that the trip back to McGraw's ship would take much longer than the trip from it, because of the people they had to guide and protect. Fortunately for Doe, the Civilians were following instructions to the letter, and were generally keeping silent. He heard a few whispers tossed back and forth, but aside from that, very little was being said, which let him focus on his surroundings.

What amazed Doe was the fact that, in less than a quarter of an hour, they had made the trip, and hadn't run into any enemy mechs, save for the turtle, which was still up-ended, though as inert as a stone. Doe did get annoyed when he heard several cell phones get whipped out, smart watches get activated, and a single omni-tool whir in to existence, so the civilians could take pictures, but one stern look from the SIGMA Veteran had ended that, and soon they were at McGraw's ship.

_"VIP Secured in the Captain's Quarters."_ Doe heard from the Team Channel, as he, one squad of marines, and Bower were guarding the entrance to McGraw's ship.

_"Roger that." _Doe responded.

"Commander…" Came the voice of the Marine Sergeant he'd spoken to before, Han'Shon.

"Yes?"

"Isn't it strange how we haven't seen _anything,_ aside from the upside down mech, on our trip back?" Han asked.

"Sometimes, things go according to plan." Bower mentioned, "I can count on one hand how many times it's happened… But it _does_ happen."

"But it makes me feel uncomfortable… Like… Something should be happening…" Han said, shuddering for effect.

"Do you see anything on your motion tracker?" Doe asked.

"No."

"Do you hear anything besides us?"

"No."

"Do you see any snipers setting up?"

"No."

"Congratulations, Sergeant. For the fifth time in my entire career, and what is probably the first time in yours, things went exactly according to plan." Doe said, as he heard footsteps.

Immediately, all five rifles were in the air, as Christopher McGraw rounded the corner, a silent AI Disk he held in his hands. He was fiddling with a holographic interface that surrounded the machine, and didn't even look up when he started speaking. "What the hell, Johnny boy? Lower your rifle, I'm no threat."

"The Construct in your hands is." Doe stated loudly.

"He gave up without a fuss, Doe. It's _dead."_ He said simply, "maybe you should try and _talk_ to your problems…" The man chuckled lightly, as he came close enough to Doe that he could place his hand upon the barrel of his rifle. "Instead of shooting them to death." He lowered the barrel. "How many people did you bring into my ship? There were a _lot_ in the bank."

"Forty One."

"The Nomad's carrying capacity is fifteen, first of all, and secondly, call them all back out, the station's defenses are offline, the Alliance is already moving in." McGraw said, before he tapped on the side of his head. "Turn your radio on, I'm pretty sure radio silence is over."

Doe stared at the scientist for several moments, before he did just what was asked.

Immediately, his ears were greeted with, _"John Doe S1-1, please respond." _

_ "This is Alpha 1, copy." _

_"Doe the station's defenses are down, we're sending in the Marines, how goes the VIP extraction?" _

_ "Mission accomplished, we've got VIP in McGraw's quarters." _

"What?"

_"And what of the AI?" _

_"McGraw talked him down, he's turned himself in." _

_"Great work, Doe. Broadcast your coordinates, we're picking you up." _

"Did you seriously lock Trent in my room?" McGraw demanded, after Doe removed his hand from the nook under his jaw.

"It was the most secure point in your ship -"

"It's also my _god damn room!"_ McGraw shouted, "granted I've got the one on the Moose, but this one is the only one I've _got,_ ever since I sold my apartment in DC!" He stormed into his ship, blue eyes ablaze.

In seconds, Doe heard McGraw angrily ordering 'everyone and their mother' out of his ship. It took the acknowledging words of the SIGMA Operatives and former marines for the confused civilians to finally start funneling out, just as Doe heard radio chatter spike alongside the Marines storming the many docks and entrances to the station. In just a few minutes, McGraw's ship was emptied again, save for those who had already been on it, the SIGMAs, and Director Trent.

Soon after that, McGraw exited the ship as well, Nikola's disk in hand. "I'll go ahead and give this one to Johnny boy." He handed it to the first SIGMA, who took it reverently. McGraw looked at Trent, and stared at him for a moment, "Err... Trent, right? Leonard? Yes, Leo, go ahead and tell Tyson I've got to run back to the Moose and prepare a few things before I can dissect Nikola." He explained, "the facilities he's going to want to use are on Mars, around the Exclusion Zone. This device _can not be powered_ until I get there, understood?" The SIGMA nodded firmly, he understood the gravity of the situation, and had an idea of why McGraw was specifying the facilities being used to scour the Prothean ruins and study the wrecked dreadnought. "Good." McGraw nodded back, "until then, don't let this thing out of your hands, and don't let it get within eyesight or earshot of any AI, they will recognize it and start asking questions we don't want to answer just yet." _  
><em>

"McGraw." Trent spoke up as Marines faintly began approaching their docking bay. "How did you talk him down?"

"Hm..." McGraw thought on that for a moment, scratching an itch on his upper lip as he did. "I... Gave him an order he couldn't refuse." He chuckled, "'till next time, Trent." He entered the ship without another word, and just a moment later the ship departed and rocketed away from the station.

Inside the ship, McGraw waved a hand at Miranda, beckoning her to follow him as he made his way to his communications room. He noted with an odd mixture of pride and bemusement that she was trying very hard to look like she hadn't been listening to what McGraw had said outside, but though he knew what to look for, and thus knew she had been listening, he didn't broach the subject. "Our next stop is Elysium." He said seriously, "but I've got to make a call before we go, to send a specialist to Mars." He explained, as Gladys made the brief announcement that the Warp Drive was powering up.

"I thought _you_ were going?" It seemed Miranda had noticed that McGraw had picked up on her snooping.

"I never said I _wasn't_." McGraw responded, "but I've got vested interests elsewhere -" The most direct evidence of such couldn't have been more clearer than the distant look in McGraw's determined eyes, as if he was thinking deeply on something even as he and the teen navigated the Nomad. "- and _I_ don't want to step foot on that region of Mars if I can't help it."

"Why? What's there?"

McGraw considered his words carefully, as they came to a halt outside the comms room. "You ever been to Chernobyl?" He asked, "place is still abandoned, even after we cleaned it up, post-World War Three. We left it dead, forsaken and abandoned to remind ourselves of the horrors of nuclear energy, be it misused or intentional, _that_ is what happens when we drop the bomb." He explained, slowly turning to face Miranda directly. He saw her gulp, his presence had suddenly seemed to consume the entire corridor, and he loomed over her like a Titan. "I don't go to Mars for the same reason we haven't resettled Chernobyl. There are things there... _Lessons..._ I can't ever forget." The distant look came back to cloud his eyes, but the dark blue orbs were still boring in to Miranda's own.

"What lesson?" Miranda finally asked, drawing up the courage to speak.

McGraw dropped the looming presence, and just like that the thickness of the air vanished. He reached up with his cybernetic hand and poked Miranda on the head, "I've already lain down the clues for that one, Lady. Life is a puzzle, you've just got to fit the right pieces together." He nodded, and with a light grin, entered the communications room, vanishing from sight as the blank room took on its solar-system appearance.

The door swished shut, leaving a befuddled Lawson to try to piece together what McGraw said. It was only then she felt the feeling of acceleration in her gut, and with a wide-eyed look at the door, she wondered how McGraw could possibly be communicating someone if they were mid-warp. Deciding once again to throw caution to the wind, she utilized what few skills she had learned from Hampton back on the MSS and tried to listen to McGraw's conversation inside.

Unfortunately for her, his AI was _not_ on her side. _"It is very impolite to listen in on others' conversations, Miss Lawson."_ Said the machine, as its hologram appeared a few feet to the left of the door. _"Especially when Mister McGraw is discussing things with... Him. Their friendship has been... Tumultuous, as of late."_

Miranda took a step back from the door, and looked at the AI, whose womanly features and warm orange glow carried an oddly _sorrowful_ look about them. "Who is he speaking to? His father?"

_"Do not be absurd, Miss Lawson." _The AI waved her down the hallway, back towards the mess hall. _"McGraw Senior has long since passed. Even the most intelligent men in all of reality cannot survive the onset of a brain tumor as fast as that." _It explained.

Miranda blinked, "I thought he had passed in his sleep?"

_"He did, but Mister McGraw never released the fine details of his death to the public. Similarly, he never released McGraw Senior's body, either. Even I do not know where Jason was buried, or how his last day was spent."_ The AI said solemnly.

Miranda nodded slowly as she was guided by the sound of the AI's voice, "so who _is _he speaking to?"

The AI was silent, as if it was weighing the possible consequences of a response versus the lack thereof. After a full minute - which, to AI's, would be an eternity - Miranda had written it off as she wouldn't get an answer, but then, out of left field, came the AI's response. _"Edward Spokane."_

* * *

><p>If he had to describe a rotation in the Mars Exclusion Zone, Tyrone Malisar would simply say <em>boring.<em> The Exclusion zone was the one and only place on Mars where no one without an active-duty military ID or a level one clearance in Alliance Intelligence could go. Civilian and private satellites were regularly _shot down_ if they were even thought to pass over the Exclusion Zone, but the secrecy didn't end there. For the Soldiers who had to do their guard rotations on the red planet, being stuck in the Exclusion Zone was hell, due to the fact that stepping one toe out of line without the proper clearance could get one sent to military prison for treason. The only place grunts like him could go would be the barracks, the mess hall, the rec-center, and the latrine, though Tyrone and his cohorts were special, as analysts, _they_ got to go to the defense room, even though their job could very easily and very feasibly be taken up by an AI.

_But no... 'We need Human eyes in that room, Private. Machines can misprocess faulty data and shoot down a civilian ship, people ask questions when sensors start going off.'_ That was his job in a nutshell - to stare at a sensory suite all day, every other day, and report anything out of the ordinary.

Tyrone shook the sleep out of his head, supposing that it made sense in the end - the things in the Exclusion Zone could very well start a war if they were discovered. Scuttlebutt said that _something_ had been found a decade ago in the supposedly empty Prothean Ruins, add that to the ongoing research in to the Prothean Dreadnought that had been stolen from the Turians during the battle for Palaven, and the Exclusion Zone had become _the_ best spot for research in to alien _anything._ If the Alliance couldn't explain it, and the races of the Citadel Council couldn't account for it, it came straight to the Exclusion Zone to be studied. The problem was, that was a very rare occurrence - the last time something new had come through, Tyrone had been told, was back in 2210, when metals had been found in some caves on Earth, that didn't exist on the Periodic Table.

This all served to explain why he had been absolutely floored when, barely an hour ago, a squad of fully armed SIGMAs had dropped in a few miles outside of the Zone, and had waltzed inside, spouting off authentication codes that went all the way back up to Arcturus; but that wouldn't surprise him as much as what he was seeing on the scanners right now. For Alliance two-dimensional scanners, the kinds used exclusively on terrestrial stations and meant _only_ for scanning the planetary environment, everything was displayed to scale: One dot for one average-sized contact moving in an intelligent fashion. _How_ the scanners were good enough to pick up the organized movement of a sentient, and not the 'disorganized' movements of an animal, Tyrone would never understand, but _what_ they displayed he did entirely: The larger the dot, the larger the contact. Once something had crossed a certain threshold, it was clear that said dot was not a person or a squad at all, but a vehicle. The vehicle he was staring at now was, according to the computer, _ten kilometers long,_ more than three times the size of an average Alliance Flagship.

Through shock and other such emotions, he managed to tap a few times on the computer's display, nothing changed. Slowly, with a terrified shake threatening to take control of his body, Tyrone keyed his Commanding Officer.

_"What is it?"_ The Colonel demanded.

"Err... Sir, Scanner's room. I've got an unidentified contact on intercept course." He leaned back in his chair and gazed at his only other companion, who shook her head. "Ship registry is coming up empty."

_"Hail it, and make certain I can hear it. The orders just came through, we _are_ expecting someone."_

"Copy that." Tyrone manipulated the controls and keyed in to the ship's radio frequencies. He cleared his throat and put on the 'soldier's voice', as his companion coordinated with the EZ's defense grid. "Unidentified vessel bearing in on course three-two-three... You are violating the Martian Exclusion Zone, state your name, intentions, and prepare to be escorted to course five-oh-five." The sonic-boom that rumbled through his small building let him know that the fighter jets were already hurtling towards the _massive_ vessel.

Nothing happened, the vessel kept approaching, at its constant speed. Tyrone felt a bead of sweat build up on his neck, "unidentified vessel, I say again: You are violating the Martian Exclusion Zone. If you do not divert to course five-zero-five you will be shot down." He prayed the fighters were packing nukes, because he doubted anything less could even _scratch_ a vessel of this size.

The vessel kept approaching, it was going to hit the Exclusion Zone any second now. "Unidentified vessel, this is your _last warning,_ divert to -"

_"This is the private vessel Invictus."_ Came a _deep,_ authoritative voice. _"Authorization codes Six-One-Two Alpha Bravo."_ It said, calmly. _"We are here under orders from the Arcturus Board of Directors and cannot change our vessel's course _so easily in-atmosphere."The voice challenged, _"we require a landing zone capable of holding two shuttles containing a total of ten armed guards and one VIP."_

Tyrone sighed silently, "Invictus, standby." He muted that channel and then spoke to the Colonel, "Colonel, is this Invictus the ship we're expecting today?"

_"It is."_ The Colonel responded, _"tell the captain of that vessel to send his shuttles to landing pad A-24."_

"Yes sir."

* * *

><p>"Mister Spokane, we'll be landing in ten seconds." Came the masked voice of Kilo-One, the mere sound of him speaking cut through the deep silence and complete darkness of the shuttle like a cannon blast. "They've cleared out the landing pads for us, save for the SIGMAs who survived Arcturus." He listed off.<p>

"Make certain the lab is cleared of all people, no one here can help me with my work." Came a light toned, but very authoritative voice. "After I get AI One's disk, make it so the SIGMAs cannot follow me. Do not kill them." He ordered, slipping on the final piece for his EVA Suit. "And send Bravo Team to my old abode, I don't want _anything_ left when they are done."

"Parameters?" A light blue glow was cast in the shuttle, bright enough to light up Kilo-One's arm and his chestplate, but not enough to give form to the other voices in the shuttle.

"Catalogue everything that is missing, then send it to Destination Hades." The shuttle touched down on the ground, everyone inside stood up.

There was a light click and hiss noise as the one unarmored man slipped on the helmet for his suit and it pressurized. A moment passed and after the shuttle depressurized, the bay-door opened, revealing planet Mars in all of its glory. Edward Spokane stepped out of the shuttle, flanked on both sides by his massive, seven-foot tall bodyguards, he inhaled deeply, indifferently remembering his many years spent living on the eponymous red planet. Aside from the biodomes surrounding him, each one marking another part of the Exclusion Zone, the area surrounding him was devoid of remarkable details. The ground was rust red and lathered heavily with the dust that pervaded the entirety of the Martian surface, the sky above was a hellish-orange color, and Spokane could make out the sun just as it was setting behind one of the biodomes. Though the atmosphere on Mars was not at all breathable, it was enough for Spokane to hear the outside world, and save for the prevailing winds and sounds of the red sand blowing about the ground, it was silent.

Had it been sixteen years earlier, he would have felt a great elation at being here. He would have perhaps made an allusion to how Mars had once been the end-all goal for Human space travel, and how far Humanity had come given that one could quite literally decide they wanted to go to Mars, purchase a ticket, and make the trip in less than an hour. If he were feeling generous, he may have even bent down and picked up some of the sandy surface, and let it run through his fingers; but now? He only wanted to do this favor for his friend, and _leave._ He loathed this planet almost as much as he loathed his lack of success with the Genesis Project. If he were to have his way - and he _would -_ he would never come back to this planet again, he was only here for two things: To be rid of his old home, once and for all, and to provide a favor for one of his two friends in the entirety of the universe, though their friendship _was_ debatable as of late.

_"Mister Spokane!"_ Came a voice broadcast directly in to his helmet, Spokane gazed around and found its possessor, it was the SIGMA - the _first_ SIGMA - who held Nikola's corpse.

"Do you have it?" He didn't raise his voice over the winds that were picking up speed and slamming in to his helmet, his light tone would be carried directly to Doe's helmet thanks to the radio.

_"I was told there would be a verification phrase."_ Doe said, warningly.

"And _I_ have little time for my friend's useless trifles." Brazenly, and with no fear of the multitude of various deaths the super soldier could provide him, Spokane strode forward towards the soldier. He didn't even _try_ to swipe for the disk, opting instead to look like he was going to do just that, so as to see and gauge the soldier's reactions; Doe didn't disappoint.

Where other SIGMAs would - and, through personal experience, _had - _allow him to take the object out of the pure shock that someone would try something as bombastic as walking up to a super soldier and stealing something from him, Doe lived up to his reputation and had the disk out of Spokane's line of sight, hooked up in to his armor, and completely protected before the man could even blink. The sudden movements had set off Spokane's guards, who raised their rifles, which in turn caused Doe's understandably paranoid companions to draw their weapons, and in that instant things were at a standoff, with Edward Spokane and John Doe in the center of it, the latter's pistol drawn and placed right next to Spokane's weak, glass helmet. It may have looked comical, the _massive,_ seven and a half foot tall super soldier holding the six foot tall human at gunpoint, but the thin air around Spokane held an atmosphere of supreme confidence, as if he didn't fear at all for his life, as if he were in complete control of the situation and the gun pointed right between his eyes meant nothing to him, and his actions were simply proving that fact.

Spokane, dully, adjusted his blood red tie, and dusted some of the red sand off of his dark gray suit, it did little to curb the growing winds, but the act of brushing the sand off of his formal wear said far more than words could: Despite the obvious differences in physical power and battle experience, Spokane _was_ in control here. "Mister Doe." He said slowly, purposefully disrespecting the SIGMA by ignoring his hard-earned rank, "I understand your need for secrecy. I understand your need for protection of what may very well be the single most dangerous scientific find in the post-contact age. I also am very well aware of how much time is being wasted here and now, as opposed to me telling you the phrase Christopher provided me, but _you_ must understand something as well."

_"And what would that be?"_

_"You_ can not kill me." Spokane challenged, though the tone underneath it was off, Doe could have sworn the man was disappointed. "Perhaps if you were younger... If your body wasn't destroying itself." He said, not even giving Doe a moment to react to his knowledge, "but I waste my time. I got what I needed from this game." He raised a hand expectantly, "Christopher told me to ask you how titans war."

Doe did not like this man, at _all;_ but his orders were clear, and Spokane had provided the pass-phrase. With a livid stiffness in his movements, he placed the pistol back on his hip and reached back to the small of his back, and detached the disk he'd hooked in to it. _"You are not like McGraw." _

"I am far more like him than you realize." Said Spokane, before he took the disk with an almost reverent touch. "You can leave, now, mister Doe." He said, turning to his left and walking towards the building he'd been told was his for the time being, not even giving the living legend a second glance as he kept walking. "I no longer require your services." Though he did falter after he said that last piece, inclining his head momentarily as if a thought just occurred to him. "And feel lucky, mister Doe." He placed the disk in his suit jacket's pocket and, once again, adjusted his tie. "Most individuals who hear those words from me do not live to see the next morning." He waved his hand once, and his own guards disengaged from the SIGMAs and began following him, the tension only barely lessening the farther away he got.

_"What an ass."_ Came the voice of one of Doe's teammates, directly in to his helmet. _"Commander, did you see what I saw?"_ He then asked.

"I did." Said Doe.

_"Why the hell were their skin suits shredded?"_ The SIGMA strode up to Doe's left and stared intensely at the retreating guards. _"We're on Mars for christ's sake, and they had bits of skin showing all over their bodies."_ He thought a moment, _"kind of looked like bullet holes."_

_"I think what's more interesting was sticking out from the shredded joints. **No one** outside of Sparta should have synthmuscle tech... So where in the hell did a private army get it?"_

Another SIGMA chimed in, _"I think you're missing the fact that none of them were shattering their bones with every movement. One_ strand_ of__ synthetic muscle can lift fifteen kilograms, and single strands are smaller than a human hair. An entire suit of them has far more power than that, to say the least."_ She didn't even bother to list examples of what they could do, everyone present knew what SIGMAs in their armor were capable of.

The first caught on quick, "_most OD3's break a limb or two if they put on their power armor without the proper training. And that's just actuators and servos." _He said, as he came up on Doe's right, all three of them staring at the retreating Spokane and his posse of bodyguards. _"Put on a synthetic muscle suit you could break your skeleton in to fine little pieces just by twitching wrong. You'd need bone augments to circumvent that, and even then, most modern bone-weaves wouldn't cut it."_ His implication went unsaid

Silence, for several moments. "_Mercenaries with SIGMA augments and synthetic muscle suits.__ Should we report that, Commander?"_

"Yes." Said Doe, "but not to the Board."

_"Say again?"_

"No." He said again, "the way he spoke, and the faint familiarity his name draws... Spokane is not afraid of the government, let alone the Board of Directors. I'll need to look at something first, but I think he's an untouchable." He said, drawing on an unused term the SIGMAs had coined long ago. "And if Christopher McGraw is his _friend,_ that option could potentially be even worse. We need to keep this in-house, need-to-know." He paused, "SIGMAs only." He finally turned his ancient gaze from the long-gone image of the Mysterious One and turned it then to the massive flagship, as it parked itself just a few kilometers from the Exclusion Zone and began flaring whatever thrusters were needed to keep it floating ominously above the black-site.

_"Keeping this Spartans-only will only make the tension between us and the Board that much worse, John."_

"But the possibility of letting that man know we're on to him would be worse than that. Especially if he is who I think he is. Besides, the Board is convinced we're on their side, and they're more worried about the UN than about the possibility of us calling Sixty Six." He shook his head, "let's go, we need to get to Sparta, speak to General Howe." He began the long walk to their shuttle bay, his HUD belatedly informing him that a dust storm was on its way.

* * *

><p>Aboard the appropriately named 'Nomad', Christopher McGraw stood stoically in his bathroom, the steam from his shower still hanging thickly in the air and his skin still bright red from the heat of the water. He had his head pressed tightly against the warm glass of the single mirror in the room, contemplating the day's actions as he stared at his mottled reflection.<p>

_I've got to start the game, now._ Thought McGraw, as a brief, but fiery lance of pain leapt up his nonexistent left arm. _This was my last favor and he knows it. There is nothing left between the both of us except a vague understanding that someone has to make the first move..._ He stared unblinkingly at the steamy mirror so close to his face, his dark blue eyes taking in every detail of the largely detailless surface, noting how that, with every drop of water that slid down the glass, more of his mirror image came in to detail. _The pawns go first. But he knows I've fired my first shots by so brazenly sending him to do this, I'm the one who made the first move. King's Pawn to E4. _He visualized the board in his head, his shining white, marble pieces on the side closest to him, whilst his closest friend's jet black obsidian pieces stood so far away on the other side. _But how will he respond? That determines the entire course of the game. Will he send a pawn to counter mine? Or will he break out a knight and try to take me out immediately? _He shook his head and stood up straight, the mist was beginning to clear and his body was beginning to dry, he didn't try and brush his hair out of his eyes. _Stupid, stupid, stupid McGraw. I need to keep my pawns safe no matter what... I shouldn't have opened up so bravely, not against him. His response will determine the tone of the entire game._ He sighed deeply and brushed his hair out of his face.

"Gladys, once we break warp in orbit of Elysium, send Jackie a message." He said to the steamy air.

_"Is it about Edward, Mister McGraw?"_

McGraw nodded solemnly, before he flipped a switch and his bathroom began drying off as quickly as his mind could solve a problem. "Tell him the Titanomachy has begun, and that he needs to stay as far away from it as possible." He sighed deeply, before he picked up his smile again, and reached for a brush, the last thought that ran through his head before he began brushing it would be a repeat of an earlier one. _His response will determine the tone of the entire game. _


	21. Chapter 19

_A/N: _

_A lot of folks have mentioned how packed the story is becoming, how much is happening at one time.  
>I believe I've addressed this before, but in case I have, I'll keep it short, and in case I haven't, I'll address it here - I'm aware of it.<br>Nothing you see in this story will be dropped, and everything that _seems_ to have been dropped will be addressed at some point or another. A lot of the point of this story is to set up and flesh out the universe, much like how TFW set up and introduced Humanity._

_That being said, I will work on making TSW flow a bit better, so bear with me, please. _

_Without further ado, _

_We're off!_

* * *

><p>Chapter 19<p>

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><p>"<em>Your life shall be a series of trials, one after the other until you attain the glory that is your due at the right side of the Emperor. You shall face the hardest first, so that we know we are not wasting our time."<em>

— **Chaplain Sighelm, of the Celestial Lions, Warhammer 40,000**

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><p><em><strong>April 20<strong>__**th**__** , 2216**_

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><p>The first thing John S2-15 felt upon reobtaining consciousness was a chilling sense in his veins. It wasn't the biting cold of Sparta's north and south poles, nor was it the gradual cold that came from standing in front of an air conditioner. It was an odd, chilling feeling in his very veins that seemed to counteract the slight heat of the room he was in. He couldn't help but wonder, was this the augmentations acting? Or was it simply a bad coincidence?<p>

Either way, his eyes opened and summarily experienced a brief sensory overload. The lights were brighter, the colors sharper, and the details far clearer than they had ever been in his entire life. John prepared to blink hard, but before his eyes had even twitched shut, they had adjusted, and all was well. He was lying upon a hospital bed, in the same surgery room he'd fallen asleep in, and he was looking up at the ceiling. John's new eyes could detect even the smallest of details upon the ceiling above him, he could see the lines between the sheets of metal, the bolts that kept them still, and even the texture of the metal itself, which was smooth and stained, so as not to reflect his new image back at himself.

John blinked, and after a second passed, he realized he could hear far better than he had used to. He could hear the ever faint hum of the station's reactors working tirelessly to provide it with its precious power. He could hear mechs walking the halls and a faint conversation between two muffled voices, that he couldn't make out the details of. John inhaled deeply, and felt an odd rush within his lungs, as if he'd inhaled much more air than intended, but it felt sublime, as if he should have been breathing this way his entire life. He exhaled, and felt the slightest tingling in his veins, though it quickly went away, being replaced with the chilling sensation.

For several seconds, John lay upon the table, getting used to his new body. After a quarter of a minute passed, John sat upright, slowly. Movement felt much easier now, and John felt more powerful in his movements. He raised his arms up to greet his augmented eyes, and could see the faded outlines from the surgical equipment, that had so meticulously carved into his body and changed it on a biological level. Experimentally, he clenched his fist as tight as he could. He felt much more power in this clench, as if he could crush a stone in his bare fist. He opened and closed his hand quickly, amazed at the speed with which he could perform the actions, far faster and far more powerfully than he could have done, previously.

John looked down at his bare torso, it too bore the scars of augmentation. But upon a second glance on it, and his arms, he realized how much more muscular and developed he looked. He looked like he had the body of a twenty year old MMA Fighter, along with the size of a professional basketball player. In short, he had been transformed from an above-average teen in to a perfect specimen of human physical development. John looked back at his chest, it was far more toned and muscular than it had been before. He clenched his abs and rapped his knuckles upon them, and found them to be harder than ever before.

After a few minutes of examining the body he would have to get used to for the next four years, John swung his legs over the table and made to stand up.

_"Ah! Mister Two Fifteen! You have awoken!"_ Said the Station's AI, before its holographic image materialized like a wave of dust in the air. _"How do you feel?"_ It had a woman's voice and body, wearing a simple Doctor's uniform, with her 'hair' brought up into a tight bun, and a pair of thin rimmed glasses secured firmly on her nose.

John considered the feelings in his clothed legs. He stood up, and stretched his muscles. He tapped his right foot on the ground a few times, and slammed one fist into the palm of the other, before he called forth his biotics. He didn't fail to notice the wide-eyed look the AI gave him when the fiery violet aura enveloped him, he himself was slightly surprised, they were far stronger than they had ever been before, and he actually had to make a concerted effort to bring them back down, it made him wonder where the Alliance had gotten the medical data required to augment his _biotics - _a field of human biology that had only existed for fifteen years.

"I feel…" John noted his voice sounded audibly deeper, "… Taller."

_"Well, during your recovery, your accelerated bodily functions did in fact allow you to grow to two-point-one meters."_ The DocBot informed him. _"I have a few tests I would like to run, before I show you to your armory." _John nodded in response, and a flashlight lowered from the ceiling above, the tiles separating and rearranging themselves to accommodate the tool's arrival. _"This should only take a moment." _The bright light shined in his left eye, and then his right; like before, John's eyes adjusted almost instantaneously, to the point where the light barely even blinded him.

_"Alright. Follow the lights on the ground, we need to test your physical abilities, make sure nothing has been irreparably damaged."_ She said.

John walked through the station, following the dark red lights on the floor. He passed by dozens of other surgery rooms, a vast majority of which held sleeping SIGMAs, still recovering from their Preliminary Augmentation Process. As John strode through the station, he still felt himself acclimating to the augmentation procedures' finer effects. His body was much more sensitive to his commands, and more than once he found himself walking far faster than he had consciously intended, and once or twice he found that the SimuSun lights were a bit brighter than they had been before he went to sleep. He also felt heavier, but he had known to expect that, with all that they were doing to him.

After several minutes, John found himself in the station's physical therapy ward, turned into an impromptu exercise wing. There were several practice dummies, many sets of weights, a treadmill, and many other things designed to test John and the other SIGMA II's newfound physical status. The AI, several doctors, and Ducard were all there to greet him.

Ducard nodded, and fired off a salute in response to John's. "At ease." John complied, "the AI already told you what we're testing here. Treadmill first." He nodded at the indicated machine, and John nodded in response.

John ambled onto the treadmill, which looked like it had been optimized to run at a far faster speed than other exercise machines of its caliber. John was instructed to set it to level five, which was half its maximum. John did so, and in just a few moments was jogging at a pace one and a half times the pace he would jog for his morning runs on Sparta.

_"Running average speed without any signs of stress." _

"Is this the fastest you can run, John?" Ducard asked, John's ears did not fail to pick up on the subtle tones of sincerity in Ducard's voice.

"No sir." John wasn't lying, the treadmill's speed indicator said he was running thirty three kilometers per hour, but it felt like nothing to him.

"Put it up to seven." John did so, and the speedometer climbed up to forty eight KPH.

_"Average increased heart rate, slight perspiration." _

"John?"

"Faster."

"Nine."

John hit the button, and the speedometer climbed even higher to sixty KPH. Ducard didn't even get the chance to speak, before John said he could go faster, so he was ordered to bring it up to ten, and with the maximum speed of eighty KPH reached, was when John began to feel his augmented heart thumping and his blood pumping. His heart was beating fast, and despite of the fact that he knew his blood would need more oxygen, John only felt the slight need to breathe heavier. John ran on the treadmill for five minutes before he was told to cut it off.

"Next you'll be running an obstacle course. Complete it as fast as you can." John walked to the start of the obstacle course, he could see a dozen obstacles sitting in front of him: the standard tires, monkey-bars, and a myriad of other such things.

Ducard gave the order, and John took off. He immediately noticed he was moving faster than he'd been on the treadmill, it seemed as if his body was adapting to the stress of activity and allowing him to act with more freedom and power. In twenty one seconds, John was at the end of the course.

_"Twenty one point six."_ The AI reported, _"fastest yet." _

"We want to test your strength next. We'll add weights as long as you're comfortable, but take it easy, it's been several days since you've last tested your body." Ducard advised, guiding John to the weight machine.

John lay down on the machine and grabbed the bar, which already had two twenty pound weights on each side. John lifted the bar with ease, did five repetitions, before he put it back.

"Sir, requesting forty more pounds on each side." John said, and out of the corner of his eyes, and in perfect clarity, John saw Ducard pick up several more weights and add them to the machine. John did several more bench presses, but still found it to be far too easy. He requested a whopping sixty pounds be added to each side, and Ducard delivered. Here was where John had to begin putting effort into his bench presses, with one hundred and twenty pounds pressing down upon him. But still, John eventually found this to be too small scale, so he requested another sixty pounds, which Ducard delivered. Time went on, and John found his muscles being strained the most when he couldn't finish the third repetition of one hundred thirty pounds on each side. John did finish it after a few seconds of concerted effort, and placed the bar back on the bench.

"That's all I can do, sir."

"Alright." Ducard nodded, and helped the SIGMA Teen to his feet, "good job." Ducard's change in manner was jarring beyond words for the Two, the change from cold-hearted, brutal Commander to this _thing_ that actually seemed to care confused him; was this perhaps a test? John decided not to let his guard down, lest Ducard decide to personally test his combat skills. "There's one more test for you, specifically." John didn't tense up, but he stared at Ducard intently, ready for anything. "Biotics." He gestured to the dummies, as John let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Break them. We've got this room shielded, so you won't damage the station."

"Are you requesting any specific attacks to destroy the dummies, sir?" John asked, to receive a shaken head from Ducard.

John nodded, and inhaled and exhaled deeply, preparing himself. He looked at the nearest dummy, and the farthest dummy. There were six, and the farthest one was just two meters away. He made his plan just as his feet propelled him forth. In an instant, he unleashed a debilitating warp that sailed forth at high speeds, to slam into the most distant target just a second after John's fist hurtled into the face of the closest one. The relative mass of John's fist, combined with the speed of his blow, and the strength behind his new muscles, simple destroyed the dummy's head. Using _Vi-Contactus,_ John was at the next dummy in a second, and both of his palms were slammed into its metallic chest, putting a dent in it that could be visibly seen from the other side of the dummy. John roared forth to the next dummy, sending a Flare at the last, as he side-kicked this one in the chest. The flare exploded brightly and powerfully, as John's mass-increased foot slammed straight through the metal dummy.

John wrenched his foot from the dummy, and inspected his handiwork. The Warped dummy's head was torn apart, while the Flared dummy was simply missing its upper half. The dummy he was standing next to had a boot-shaped hole in its chest, while the _Vi-Contactus_ dummy's chest was caved in. The first dummy he'd hit was missing its head, making for a veritable battlefield of destroyed dummies.

"Good." Ducard nodded, a slight amount of pride in his voice. "Now follow the AI, she'll take you to the Armory, where you'll be outfitted with your own, optimized Titan Armor." He said, as the door swished open, and John saw William S2-612, of Alpha Company, enter the room. The two exchanged a brief nod and a grin, and John passed him, as the AI's hologram guided him to the Station's armory. John knew that the armory had _never_ been as filled as it had been for this event, and likely wouldn't be this full again until their Primary Augmentations.

John entered the Armory and saw that it was lined front to back with enormous armor pods, each one containing a set of Titan armor, optimized for the II's current physique. As opposed to the OD3 Heavy Powered Infantry Assault Armor, and the N7 Light PIAA, Titan Armor was as much a powered exoskeleton as an ape was a intelligent - that is to say, it wasn't. The uniquity of Titan armor came in how it augmented a man's strength - Jason McGraw had designed it specifically around SIGMA Augmentations. Whereas other powered armor suits would use servos and motors to augment a person's strength, and as such could feasibly be used by anyone, given the proper training, Titan armor did not use those machines to augment strength and as such could not be used by anyone. The synthetic muscles that Titan armor utilized were a technology that had existed in the early twenty first and twenty second centuries, but had been abandoned for various reasons, before finally being picked up again by Jason McGraw. In short, the Titan SynthMuscle suits augmented strength in such a way that punching through steel could be done with as much effort as ripping apart a piece of paper. The only problem was that wielding such power was, in a word, dangerous - even twitching the wrong way could pulverize one's skeleton if it wasn't reinforced like a SIGMA's was; as such, SynthMuscle tech was only available for use by SIGMAs, and it was largely the sole reason for many of the rumors and legends of SIGMA strength and prowess on the battlefield.

John found his armor pod after a few minutes of searching, and took a moment to marvel at its brilliance. It wasn't at all what Barton had explained that Titan Mk. 2 would look like, but John knew that the Mk. 2 was exponentially more powerful and more advanced than Mk. I, and as such it was very likely that the suit he was staring at was an optimized Mk. 1, and that the II's wouldn't see the Mk. 2 at all until they hit eighteen and had their primary augmentations. John stripped himself of his outerwear, and began the process of putting the armor on.

First came the torso of the Smart Skin Suit, which contained within its two layers the SynthMuscles that would give John his strength. After the torso came the feet and the gloves, and John waited a moment. The second the suit registered that he was wearing all of its pieces, is began to grow upon him. The torso piece's arms extended out to his gloves, and sealed onto them, as his pants sealed onto the feet and the torso. Then the suit compressed onto him, to make it as form-fitting as his own skin. The armored suit weighed several dozen pounds, due in part to the light armor plating that adorned it. But as John stretched, he found that it wasn't at all constricting, far from it, it felt as natural as his own skin. On a hunch, after doing a few stretches, John took hold of the suit on his left wrist and pulled, miraculously, the suit unsealed itself and uncompressed, acting as a sleeve now. John let go of the sleeve, which resealed and recompressed itself.

After he stretched in the suit, he gave the air a few light jabs, and immediately understood why so few Ones ever took them off - even in his slightest movements, he could _feel_ the power rippling through his body. It felt almost euphoric, he thought, before he pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind, the more important thoughts were ran along the lines of how he would have to be even more methodic with his movements than he was before - not even considering his other body parts, he had the power of a jackhammer in his fingers, which meant that any movement could damage either himself or whatever was around him.

_How will I even hold weapons, with a grip like this?_ He thought, idly wondering if there was a safety feature to keep him from crushing his weapons, as he leaned inside the pod and found his new, size-appropriate, fatigues.

John put the new fatigues on, starting with the pants, skipping the socks and boots, and fitting his shirt and overcoat on. The familiar black and red digital camouflage pattern might have seemed somewhat brutal to anyone else who saw it, but to John it screamed of _home,_ and he wouldn't have it any other way. Now, as opposed to before, he didn't look like he was nude save for the solid black skin-suit, he instead simply looked like he would normally, the primary difference being his new height and the exposed bits of the suit on his neck and hands.

With everything back on, John could now begin the process of putting on the armor. Much like the suit it was designed after, the Optimized Mk. 1 looked fairly similar to a suit of armor one would find a medieval knight wearing, the only real aesthetic difference being the black and red color scheme, and the gas-mask helmet; John was aware that the Mk. 2 looked fundamentally different from the one, but he only had Barton's word on that. First to be fastened to his body were the boots, and John immediately began to piece together how deceptively simple it was to manipulate things with the skin-suit - it read the most minute electrical signals running through his body, so as long as he didn't _really_ want to start smashing things or testing the durability of his armor, he just had to be gentle. After the boots came the shin and leg pieces. The Cod-Piece preceded the torso armor, which came before the tactical vest and the arm guards. Finally John slipped his fingers through the gauntlets, and reached for the helmet. He put it on, and the suit began booting up. First came the HUD, which immediately showed him his suit's primary functions. Within seconds, his Shields, bio-comm, motion tracker, and various other systems came on. It even synced up with the pistol, magnetically attached to the suit's thigh, and showed him his ammunition readouts.

John inhaled and exhaled deeply, before he picked up his boots and socks, and looked for a mirror. He found it, and marveled at the sight before him. His armor was thick and protective, and in the gaps between the leg plates and arm armor, he could see his fatigues peeking through. The mask shrouded his age and his face from him, and gave him the look of a cold professional. He hadn't truly considered what he would expect when he looked in the mirror, but what he saw filled him with a sense of pride he couldn't describe: Here he was, a fully armored, half-armed, and combat ready fourteen year old _child,_ ready to slaughter untold thousands, for the rest of his life. John was a SIGMA II, fresh from his first augmentations. He felt like he was unbeatable, even now, before he received the Bio-Mechanical Augmentations which would make him unstoppable.

John nodded to himself, ready for the first time in his life, to _fight_ for the rest of his life.

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><p>John spent hours in the Hospital's cafeteria, still clad in his armor, as he ate food that, while he'd heard on Earth was reputed to be horrible, was still better than the slop he was fed on Sparta. It felt like, somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd had better, but he couldn't remember when, and when he tried, the back of his head throbbed.<p>

While his body was shoveling food into his mouth on auto-pilot, John's mind was focusing about other things entirely. He knew that, very soon, he would have to select SIGMA Teens to join him in Alpha Team, and that the best of those who remained would be a part of Omega Team. His very first instinct had been to select Justin and George, George could be more geared for heavy weapons and suppressive tactics, while Justin could be their Designated Marksman, with John being their all around fighter, close, medium, and long range wouldn't be outside of his range. They all complimented their strengths greatly, and made up for their weaknesses, but he knew that choosing his closest friends would be seen as weak, it might very well be the wrong decision in the long run.

So he began thinking of how he would see the analysis reports of the other Companies, see the others' grades. He knew he would need a Tech Person who could specialize in closer-ranged fighting, so putting George as his Second - while plausible - wasn't too wise, as he just above average with Engineer based work. He would also need an excellent Sniper as his third, and while Justin fit the bill for that, he was impatient and brash at times. Ducard had done an amazing job at hammering patience into the teen, but the simple fact of the matter is Justin may act unaccordingly in some situations, and that wasn't something he could afford.

John's Sniper would have to be someone who would be willing to lie absolutely still for hours, days even, to get the perfect shot. But Sniper would also have to be great with reconnaissance work, and a beyond amazing marksman. He knew of a few in his company who had the patience required, but their marksmanship lacked slightly. He had heard of a Hotel Company soldier who excelled greatly in his marksmanship and sniper trials, if John remembered correctly, the teen's designate was S2-82.

For his suppressive/tech man, John would need a SIGMA who was optimized for strength and close-quarters duties, but was amazingly efficient with tech and machinery. George was good, and John thought he might very well choose the man, but he had heard of a Charlie Company SIGMA who had reprogrammed a Turtle mech, _wirelessly_, to work for _them_ during a training exercise, John didn't even have to try and remember which two it was - he_ knew_ that that one had been Designate S2-1, the SIGMA II's very own John Doe. This wasn't entirely a good thing, because it could suggest a reliance on tech that John didn't want. John wanted an Alpha Squad that could fight completely unarmed, and unarmored, against a superior force, and _win,_ if the need arose. George was definitely big enough to fit that bill, and John knew for a fact that the only other SIGMA II out there that could exceed George's improvisational skills was John himself.

After finishing his meal, and staring deeply into the frosted golden visor of his helmet for several hours - time just melting away as he thought intensely - John eventually decided that he would test 82 on the required skills of a Sniper, and would make George and Doe-S2 compete on a Tech/Heavy test.

"John?" Came the familiar, deep and accented voice, though with his hearing now far better than before, John only now realized how much the big man's accent had dulled in recent years; Ducard would be proud.

John turned around and smiled a genuine smile as he saw George striding towards him, with a big, warm smile. George had gotten the luck of the draw in the size part of the augmentations, the big man had to be eight feet tall with the build of a mixed martial arts fighter. He wore his own optimized armor, the same as John's, but John noticed that the big man wasn't wearing any of the fatigues above his waist, as John saw the skin suit and not the black and red camouflage. John would have thought on the issue, but after only a moment's thought decided that everyone was entitled to their quirks - and if Ducard or any of the officers pressed it, George would put the coat on without a moment's notice.

"George." John smiled, getting to his feet and bringing his friend into a hug that would shatter the spine and pulverize the ribs of a lesser man, but was merely tight for the SIGMA Teens. "How long have you been awake?"

"Two hours." George said, after releasing John. "Was released from the Gym thirty minutes ago." George looked at his armor, and then John's. "we're soldiers now, John." He said, "doesn't that mean we can kill people?"

"It does." The horrific reality of what the fourteen year old boy had just said was completely lost on the both of them. "What do you think they're going to have us do?" John asked, glad for something to briefly take his mind away from the Alphas.

"Likely SERE exercises, or extended war scenario against the Ones."

"I've been assuming they would just toss us at the Rebels, do or die."

George shrugged, "wouldn't _surprise _me. Literally throwing us in to a battlefield is something they've only done to you." He grinned slyly, looking around as he did so.

The cafeteria was packed full of more than half of the SIGMA II's. In other, smaller stations, they would have had to begun spilling into the other recreation rooms, but Titan Med-Station was meant for enormous occupancies, the cafeteria could easily service seven hundred people. More II's were funneling in every quarter of an hour, almost routinely, but one thing that both John and George had noticed was a severe lack of Justin's presence. Usually, during one of the joint-activities with the other companies, he could be found chatting up the members of the other companies, forming groups to talk tactics, and so on, but right now, he was nowhere to be found.

"Where's Justin?" George wondered.

"Likely recovering."

"I… Possible, but -" George was cut off when the lights in the station suddenly went black.

"What the hell?!" Demanded a II.

"Is this some kind of test?"

_"Everyone arm yourselves!" _John shouted over the slowly rising din, his voice carrying over the sudden many people who were beginning to talk at once, and easily permeating through the augmented hearing of every recently augmented Child Soldier present. John snatched his helmet off of the table and settled it on his head. The HUD booted up instantly, and laid a bluish white outline over the environment, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

He saw everyone around him, even without the help of the HUD, as it marked them all in green outlines. He noticed, just before the emergency lighting turned on, that the familiar humming of the station's reactors had ceased. He realized, just as everyone was bathed in dark red light, that a station's reactor failing almost _never_ happened. Even if it was a training exercise, they still would have heard the reactor, the power simply would have cut off. The gravity would still be present, but the power cut off.

John tested this theory, and lo and behold, after he slammed his right foot into the ground, he was propelled upwards. George noticed this, and upon grabbing his arm, he shouted "_gravity's down!" _

John, upon hitting the ground and activating his magnetic boots, spoke loudly and clearly, "we're under attack! Form up your squads, our priority is getting to our brothers still in recovery!" John grabbed George and searched for an ID Tag in his HUD. After six seconds he found it, _"Eighty Two! Craig S2-82, front and center!"_

In an instant, the SIGMA Teen in questioned launched himself through the gravity-less room and landed in front of John and George. "Reporting."

"I'll give you the quick version. Before we went under, I was made Squad Leader of SIGMA II Alpha Squad. Yes, _the Alpha Squad._ Consider this your trial by fire, we're hitting the armory." John ordered, "George -" George snapped to attention, "- I want you as our Heavy Weapons." George saluted in response, "Craig, you're our Designated Marksman. Understood?"

"Yes sir!" Came both of their voices.

John decided not to mention that none of them even had ranks, yet. "Don't use names over the radio, only ID Numbers." The two Alphas nodded, "let's go! Form up on me -" He cut his voice to broadcast over the SIGMA Comms, _"the rest of you, the armory isn't big enough to equip us all. I want all of you moving as your squads to assist and protect our sleeping brothers. After hitting the armory, Two-Eighty Two, Two-Sixty Six and I will look for Commander Ducard! Maintain anonymity, whoever is attacking - be it testing SIGMAs or unknown enemies - cannot know our names." _John was met with a rousing round of acknowledgments.

In mere minutes, the SIGMA Teens that were all awake and moving, were quickly making their way through the powerless Titan Medical Station. John, George, and Craig were using the lack of gravity to their advantage, and were literally soaring through the station as freely as a bird in quarter ton power armor. They all kept eyes on their motion trackers, as while they were making great time and, in just a few minutes, had traversed half the station, they knew that whoever was attacking would likely be using the same tactics as them, for travel, thus: they would be _big_ targets on the motion trackers.

What was interesting for John, was that it _wasn't_ the motion tracker that tipped him off that there was a presence around the corner they were hurtling towards - although it did help after a split second had passed and he checked it. In reality it was his newly augmented ears, that had picked up the ever-so-light clunk of magnetic boots hitting the ground. Obviously whoever had sealed himself to the ground had done so with stealth in mind, and must have been doing so with _SIGMAs_ in mind as well, as John had almost not heard it; but almost was the operative word.

With a single hand-motion, John ordered his squad to get down to the ground. To do so, John - lightly - slapped the ceiling above him, and oriented his body so that his feet would be touching the floor. Upon contact, his magnetic boots activated and kept him anchored. It was an odd feeling, being in complete zero gravity, but it wasn't entirely unfamiliar, John and his company had done Zero-G training before - if push ever came to shove, the enemy's position was down.

John had his weapon out in his right hand, and had his suit's integrated Smart Watch set ready to fabricate a HardLight weapon on a single motion's notice. The SIGMA Teens slowly, carefully, and silently crept forward. They made it just a few feet before the corner before John ordered them to freeze, the enemies were moving.

The enemies rounded the corner, and for barely an instant there was silence. They could obviously tell someone was in front of them, but they couldn't see the SIGMA Teens' finer details. The SIGMA II's, however, had their augmentations on their side, and saw everything about them.

George spoke first, _"Rebels!" _

John spoke next, _"open fire!" _


	22. Chapter 20

Chapter 22

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><p><em>Andre: I can see what you are thinking. But we need every man we can get. <em>

_Yuri: Even if they're not men? _

_Andre: A bullet from a fourteen-year-old is just as effective as one from a forty-year-old. __Often more effective._

_**- Lord of War**_

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><p><em><strong>April 20<strong>__**th**__** , 2216**_

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><p><em> "Rebels in the station!"<em>

"Take 'em out!"

The three SIGMA Teens, fresh from their first augmentations, opened fire. Three shots from each teen slammed home, shattering the shields of the rebel and tearing through his helmet, which looked not at all unlike a Baseball helmet with a frosted visor. Blood spit out from the wound and floated in the non-gravity. John S2-15 could hear many raised and panicked voices from the other side of the hall. His tactical vest's side-arm pouches were filled with ammunition, but he had no rifle ammo or grenades, but upon further inspection, John noticed something on the floating corpse that interested him.

John hopped into the air, _"Two Sixty-Six, javelin maneuver!"_ Without hesitation, George grabbed on to John's legs and hurled him forth like a spear, his own great strength compounded by the skin-suit he wore, resulting in John soaring through the air at speeds very few ordinary men could obtain by themselves, even in a zero gravity environment.

Barely a second passed by before John collided with his target corpse and grabbed on to it, taking it with him as his momentum carried them both down the rest of the hallway and quickly out of the line of fire. His impromptu meat shield proved valuable in more ways than one when it blocked several wildly fired bullets from the Rebels. John soared for three seconds, before he stuck his leg down onto the ground, and it clicked onto the metal with a loud clanging noise.

John situated himself and dragged the corpse to eye-level, keeping an eye on the area the rebels were coming from as he did so, noting that George and Craig were doing a very good job of keeping them suppressed with what limited arms and ammunition they had. John checked the rebel's tactical vest, and discovered several things he was very happy to see.

_Rifle…_ John grabbed the rebel's rifle, a pre-Second Contact War model that was popular in the outer colonies, just looking at it John could tell it had been through the ringer, it proudly displayed the dings, dents and scratches from its battles past; he checked the and - after deciding it was acceptable - clamped the rifle onto his back. He picked up speed when the gunfire started getting louder - the Rebels were advancing, likely with little regard for their own lives - John stripped the man of ammunition for his rifle at super-human speeds, and then rapidly took inventory and possession of the cadaver's grenades, of which, he had five flash-bangs, and one fragmentation.

_For emergencies only._ John thought, as he pulled out a flash-bang, and primed it.

_"Flash-bang, get ready._" And with only that warning, John hurtled forward through the null-gravity hallway and tossed the grenade around the corner at the rebels.

His shields took fire, but the unprepared rebels were stunned by the grenade, which overloaded their night vision visors. John hadn't even had to shake off the grenade's effects - his armor had protected him from its detonation automatically; he drew his rifle and allowed himself a fraction of a second to prepare for battle. He rounded the corner and opened fire, joined quickly by Craig and George. The outdated death machine bucked like a mad mule, but John took control of it within his first burst, and was able to take out the rebels just in time for the magazine to be bled dry.

"Clear!" Called John.

_"Clear!" _George reciprocated.

_"Clear!" _Craig finalized.

John sighed, _training_ in zero-gravity had been difficult, and that had been with paint rounds and men who weren't actively try to end his life, but with live ammunition and determined enemies, John was starting to understand what the instructors had meant when they'd specifically instructed everyone present to be constantly situationally aware - in zero gravity, anything could happen anywhere at any time. Something suddenly clicked in the fourteen year old's mind - this had been the first time he'd spilt Human blood. Yes, he'd killed Batarians on Mindoir, but those were aliens_, _by definition they weren't Human, and what's more, they were invading an Alliance colony, so he was defending his people. Here, though, he had spilled Human blood. The thoughts made his head hurt, but he did note his lack of remorse.

"Who's up?" The SIGMA called out, looking at the Rebels as he waited for a response. He saw their armor, hastily cobbled together over, or under sized and mismatched plates of bullet resistant materials, colored a pale green. John assumed that, because of the camouflage on the armor, they must have come from one of the urban worlds that was under Rebel threat. The uniforms underneath the armor, worn in a similar fashion as John was wearing his Combat Fatigues over his skin suit, were the standard Rebel uniform, for the ones that had survived long enough to get to a way-station and become 'proper' anarchists. It was a blood red shirt, with blue wisps making a flame like pattern spread about it. The colors were supposed to represent the blood of the Alliancemen that would be spilt, and the blue of the nebula where the Citadel was located. They wanted to join the Citadel, and would slaughter Alliance Soldiers, and even Alliance Civilians, to do so. Had John had the desire to note such a thing, he would have noted the irony of how they went about accomplishing their goal, but he didn't have such a desire, all he truly cared about was whether or not they were shooting at him and whether or not he should shoot back, and in this case, the answer to both questions was a single, solid, resounding _yes. _

"I'm good." George said, after he patted down his shoulder, which was sporting a pock-mark and a scrape in the paint thanks to a very lucky rebel bullet.

"Shields held." Said Craig, "Motorcycle had good aim." He noted dully, indicating the rebel with a helmet that was vaguely reminiscent of a Death Dealer's.

When Craig spoke, John realized that, relevant to his allies, he was upside down. As the other two Alphas rounded the corner, guns raised, John reoriented himself to the floor, remembering just how easy it had been to lose his sense of direction during _training_. Here in combat, he hadn't even noticed, but he didn't know if that was a good or bad thing just yet, because all things considered, at this very moment it _didn't matter._

"Grab their rifles." John ordered, "scavenge their ammunition."

"What the hell are Rebels doing on Titan Station?" George commented. "How did they get here? We're literally above Earth."

"No idea." John keyed his communicator, and broadcasted it throughout all SIGMA Channels. _"All SIGMA Operatives on Titan Station, be advised: Rebel presence confirmed. Watch your trackers. Two Fifteen Out."_ He cut the communicator as George came up, loaded down with ammunition for his rifle, and another weapon.

"Might have been an inside job. Human purist movements have gotten a lot of support as of late." Said Craig, "might have been leaked that SIGMAs were getting augged. Someone sympathetic to the rebels might have ratted us out."

"So they don't know it's _us_." George surmised, as he reached down to pick up the shotgun off of Motorcycle Helmet. "Good to know."

"Shotgun." Craig noted,"tight halls, space station... Good choice."

"Model isn't military. It's a Borens twelve-eighty, a Hunter's shotgun." George mentioned, sticking the gun on his back and locking it in to place.

"Cut the chatter. We've got to get to the armory." John ordered, as he slapped in to his rifle a fresh magazine, there was a time and place for all things, and on the battlefield, _time_ was the most valuable currency available, and talking like they were was wasting it. The facts were that it was very unlikely they would ever even get a hint as to how the Rebels got here, that would be the Sol Defense Fleet and the I's job, so they didn't have to worry about it, and they certainly didn't have to waste time talking about it. The others quickly fell in line with his train of thought and John received a round of affirmatives, immediately after they were ready, the three were off.

As they soared weightlessly through the station, John listened to the communicator and kept an eye on his motion tracker. The radio was as bad as the tracker, on all of Titan's multiple levels there were veritable swarms of Rebels, and they were heading to a thick group that was trying to break into the armory. The II's were reporting dozens of Rebels on every level, and they were all trying to break in to the many surgery rooms. Fortunately for the II's and their recovering comrades, in the event of a power loss, Titan Station environmentally sealed their surgery rooms, and activated the rooms' personal air supplies. Effectively, turning each and every single surgery room into its own personal fortress, with only one entrance: The main door.

But what John was noticing more and more was _how many_ Rebels were assaulting the station, this wasn't just a simple op, it _couldn't be._ With time now being afforded to him so he could think on things, he concluded that there was _no way_ they could have sneaked into the Sol System, past the defense fleets, in to Earth's outer orbit, and on to Titan Station, without _someone_ noticing, Earth's defenses were just too good; there was a reason many in non-Alliance territories called Earth a 'fortress world'. The long and short of it was that they'd had help, likely from someone high up on the chain, which wasn't good.

John cleared his mind, they were close to the armory. "Stack up on the walls." He ordered, as they came to the hallway just before the armory.

It had been a conscious decision of the designers to make the station's armory located at the end of a long, one-way hallway. In the engineer's eyes, it would have made sense from a defensive point of view: There would be only one entrance, and the enemy would continuously be funneled into the tunnel, where a wall of Alliance firepower would meet them. In practice, it was idiotic, as now the teens - technically Alliance Armed Forcemen themselves - were suffering from the tunnel's biggest weakness.

"George, you throw your flash bang in first." John ordered, "then you suppress them." He looked to Craig after George nodded, "after George throws his, wait one second and then throw yours. You're our marksman, I want you to take out the guys George suppresses."

"Understood."

"In three… Two… One!" John, George, and Craig prepped flash-bangs.

George's soared through the gravity-less air first, followed by Craig's, and then John's. The rapid pop-pop-pop of the three grenades going off within seconds of each other made the SIGMAs spring into action.

George, on his belly, ripped into the Rebels. His automatic fire quickly forced them to deploy cover spheres, the act of which surprised John immensely, but ended up going in their favor - Cover Spheres didn't have magnetic seals, so the second they deployed they became floating barriers that were tossed about as bullets slammed in to them. To further prove the uselessness of the Rebel's preventative planning, a crack of Craig's rifle tore cleanly through the visors of one of the rebels, John recognized the sound of the rifle that Craig had fired, he had it on semi-automatic. It made sense to the Alpha Team leader, automatic fire would just impede his accuracy.

Another crack of Craig's rifle followed a torrent of bullets from George. When George had to reload, John replaced him, burst-firing at the Rebels, and managing to end two of them before Craig's rifle barked twice more, ending two more. The burst fire tried its best to send John flying backwards in the null gravity, but his newly augmented strength and the magnetic seals in his boots kept him firmly in place. The tunnel was now starting to get littered with the signs of battle: Blood from the corpses was floating aimlessly in the air, spent shell casings were spinning around, used and useless, and the corpses themselves were cluttering up the airspace.

John's HUD counted that there were several more Rebels left, but the combined, accurate fire from two SIGMA Teens who had a lifetime of training, and the inability to return fire thanks to the big teen who had a knack for effective suppressing fire, ended the battle quickly. John ordered them move forward, and they all leapt through the tunnel, fresh magazines being slapped into their rifles, the spent ones left to float aimlessly around the hallway.

John hit the door to the armory, feet-first, and without breaking stride, activated his HardLight blade. He slammed the superheated energy object into the door, and began cutting through it with little effort. In thirty seconds he had a hole large enough that he and his allies could amble in, feet-first, into the gravity-less room full of weapons designed for death and destruction.

"Two minutes." Said John, as he soared into the armory, discarding his rifle and stripping his vest of its magazines, the Rebel Rifles weren't chambered for Standard Infantry arms, and as such keeping the ammunition would prove a pointless venture. "Switch out your ammo, equip yourselves."

John got his acknowledgements, and in seconds the SIGMA II's were outfitting themselves with the Alliance's most reliable military hardware. As opposed to Citadel weaponry, which worked on a principle that Humans had come to call the 'Mass Effect', Human weaponry was much more archaic in nature. Mass Effect weapons worked by shaving small pieces of metal, just about the size of a sand grain, off of the weapon's ammo block, using element zero to accelerate the grain so it moved extremely fast; many had, during the Second Contact War, mistakenly assumed that this speed was the speed of light, but it was far from it. In reality, the ME Slugs moved at just over point-one _percent_ the speed of light, which equated to just about three hundred thousand meters per second, which gave the minuscule projectiles all the damage and stopping power of a bullet, at _many _times less size. The ME Slugs were designed to flatten or shatter upon impact, as opposed to Human bullets, which passed straight through, and only shattered when the target was 'lucky' enough; the ME Slugs did this to increase damage, as their small sizes would do very little lasting damage if they simply passed straight through. The advantage to this was essentially a limitless supply of ammunition, the Citadel's standard infantry weaponry could reliably fire thousands of shots before they would have to switch out ammunition blocks, but the primary disadvantage was heat. The reaction used to shave off the metal and accelerate it created massive amounts of heat, which forced wielders to back off and wait for the gun to cool off, periodically. This was - and still is - one of the primary, unseen advantages of Humanity's 'archaic' weapons technology: They could put far more bullets downrange, and their numbers game had proven time and time again to be more effective.

The Alliance's weapons, on the other hand, were slowly gaining a lot of momentum outside of Alliance Territory, primarily the Terminus systems, as ME Weaponry was the mainstay in the Council. Utilizing the age-old chemical reaction method of acceleration, Human Bullets were just as good, if not, better, than ME Slugs. The Alliance's standard bullet, the 7.62 Alliance Cartridge, had a velocity of one thousand twenty six meters per second, and was the mainstay in the Alliance Military for its raw power and speed, the 7.62 had come a long ways since the days of the 7.62 NATO Cartridge. The primary advantage of the Alliance's bullets was the larger surface area of the bullet, which in turn did far more damage than the sand-grain sized slugs; whereas one slug would penetrate just a few inches into a ballistics gel dummy, and splinter within, a 7.62 would shoot straight through it, and cause far more entry/exit damage. It was clear that, in terms of damage, the bullet took the cake in this match-up, but it did suffer from a major weakness: Numbers. Alliance Ammunition, when compared to ME Slugs, was pitifully small when compared to the raw numbers the Mass Effect Weaponry could fire. A standard magazine for an Alliance Standard Infantry Rifle could hold thirty five rounds, and Alliance Tactical Vests - both for Marines and Soldiers - could hold ten magazines, equating to three hundred and fifty rounds ready to fire. So the Council clearly had the advantage in ammunition storage, but Bullets also held many advantages in the general effectiveness area.

Bullets were far more capable of breaching cover, and Council armor is thin, more designed to deflect the kinetic energy ME Slugs carried. Human bullets, being much larger and traveling much faster, could simply brute-force their way through Council Armor. These reasons and many more were why the Citadel was ambling desperately to find a way to improve their Mass Effect technology, without reverting all the way back to ballistic weapons. However in the Terminus Systems, Human Weaponry was rapidly becoming the mainstay, and many mercenary organizations were adopting Bullets and Lead as their primary methods of death, as the lawless lands had no qualms about dropping centuries of tradition for the weapon that would kill faster, and bloodier.

John had been taught all of this during his seven years in Hell, and it all flew through his augmented mind as he rapidly armed himself with the station's Standard Infantry Weapons and ammunition; as he armed himself he knew he had to enter the Human-vs.-Human mindset. Human armor was designed to deflect Human munitions, thus making it far more effective against Mass Effect Slugs. It generally took several clean shots to breach the Infantry Armor the Marines and Soldiers wore, and several more to break through the Power Armor the OD3's and N7 adorned themselves with. SIGMA Titan armor - the kind not optimized for the teenagers - took almost half a magazine to properly breach, not even counting their shields, meaning that it was far more cost-effective, and quick, to simply go for the unarmored portions of a Human's body: The throat, the arms, and the visor.

John hefted the sleek, Standard Infantry Rifle into his hands, and looked down the sights. The rifle itself had the aesthetic look of a World War Three era XM8 rifle, a rifle that had largely been abandoned due to practical issues, though the Alliance had revived the project and had been universally successful in creating it _right._ The Standard Infantry Rifle was only outmatched, in terms of reliability _alone,_ by the legendary AK-47 rifle, though said rifle was so infrequently seen on Alliance Worlds that it had largely been forgotten to history by 2196. Satisfied with the sights, John slapped a magazine into the rifle, pulled the chambering mechanism located on the right side of the gun, and flipped the safety to three-round burst.

"Found a SAW." He heard George call out, as the big man hefted a machine gun in to his arms and began stocking up ammunition for it.

John acknowledged George's pride, and looked to Craig, who had found himself the lone Marksman rifle model in the entire vault. It was an older model, but the Accurate Rifle for Marksmans I - or the ARM I for short - was still a reliable weapon. Fifteen rounds, only three of which were needed to pierce an OD3's shielding unit, and a fourth to shatter his visor. John could almost tell Craig was smiling beneath his helmet, as he chambered a round and adjusted the scope.

"Everyone armed?" John asked, after his mental clock ran out of time; everyone nodded, and he ordered them to move.

The Station was enormous, John knew that it would take several minutes to traverse to the nearest elevator shaft, and then another two to launch themselves to the highest floors. John keyed in to the public communications SIGMA Channels, and found that his brothers were doing well at holding off the Rebels, the allied three hundred doing wonders at defending against the enemy thousand, if number estimates were correct. But John knew that, once he found Ducard, the priority would be to turn on the power.

_Perhaps…_ An idea struck John, and - as he and his squad soared through the station, towards the sound of gunfire - he used his Skin Suit to key through the squad listings.

He found one that was mobile, and thus, was free. Their callsign was, of all things, Rabbit squad. John assumed it was an inside joke in Charlie Company, the company they had come from.

_"Rabbit One, this is Alpha One, please respond."_ John called.

_"Alpha One, this is Rabbit One, Two-Six-Ten, what do you need?"_ Came the voice of Rabbit Squad's squad leader.

_"I'm assigning you a new priority. Get the power back on, failing that find the station's AI Core and find a way to establish a line of communication to the nearest Deep Space/Communications Satellite." _

_"Understood. We are on our way, Rabbit Squad Out."_ And with that, the squad cut from the radio, just as the Alphas ran into a thick group of Rebels, currently engaged in a firefight with a half dozen II's.

"Give 'em help!" John ordered, magnetically clamping himself to the ground and taking cover.

John's SIR bucked and barked as it fired in tight, three round bursts. Every bullet went where he wanted them to go, first to the chest to shatter the shields, and then to the head to scramble the brain. Soldiers and Marines were taught to shoot for the center of mass, OD3's and N7 were taught to shoot to kill, SIGMAs were taught that you shouldn't need more than one bullet, after the shields fell, so they had to make them count.

The noise of John's rifle was completely overshadowed by the deafening sound of George's light machine gun, as it roared out chemically accelerated lead. The Rebels were successfully suppressed, giving the two SIGMA Squads under fire time to regroup, and the two Alphas time to take cover. George stopped firing long enough for John and Craig to break cover, John burst fired at one Rebel, shattering his shields, but before he had time to even begin adjusting for the man's head, it was pierced by a Marksman Rifle. John repressed the urge to look over at Craig, his HUD was showing him the miniscule blue lines that were his squad mates' lines of sight, and the one the Marksman Rifle's bullet had belonged to, was Craig's, so John continued firing.

In minutes, the crowded and cramped hallway was now barren and lifeless, save for the three squads of SIGMA II's. The two squads acknowledged the Alphas' help just before they went to scavenge weapons from the dead rebels, John, knowing his work here was done, ordered his squad to keep moving. The Alpha Squad leapt through the station, using the lack of gravity to their advantage as they quickly traversed it. Soon they found themselves at the elevator nexus, but they were faced with a problem.

"Contacts on the tracker!" Craig warned.

"These doors are sealed _shut."_ John said.

"Cut through 'em!" George suggested, as he spun around and shouldered his LMG.

John shook his head, "negative. Elevator doors on this station are thick, meant to hold their own against emergency vacuum exposures. HardLight blades would have to be twice as long to cut through 'em."

"Alright then, keep me cover!" George ordered, clamping his LMG onto his back.

"George, what are you -" John was silenced when George slammed his own HardLight blade into the center of the door and cut up six inches. He deactivated the blade and stuck his hands in between the doors.

John picked up on what the big man was doing, and shouldered his rifle. He desperately wished they had cover spheres, but all they had were a few trash cans and a desk.

"Eighty Two, behind the desk."

"Copy." Craig launched himself to the desk, and when he situated himself, he kicked the trash can over to John, who situated it to the ground and dug in, as a sea of red dots began converging upon them.

"Open fire!" John ordered, the second he saw a gun barrel cone through one of the nexus' two entrances.

His rifle began spraying lead in tight bursts, he would knock out shields and Craig would splatter brains. Bullets began flying at them in response, but a satisfied John heard the Rebels calling out numbers that were grossly out of proportion to what they were really facing. Working like a well oiled machine, Craig's rifle cracked out bullets, one for the targets that John softened up, two for the targets that he took of his own volition; in tandem with Craig, John's rifle spat tight bursts of lead, knocking out shields and tearing apart faces in two powerful bursts.

Two minutes passed by as the fierce firefight raged on. George finally roared triumphantly, as he - through sheer presence of strength - successfully shattered the elevator door's foundations, forced the elevator doors open, and immediately whirled around to begin clearing the air with his massive gun. The display of strength he'd just shown wasn't lost on any of the II's present, but what they had more focused on was how long it had taken - given George's size and strength, which itself was multiplied by his armor, two minutes was _unacceptable,_ and he would no doubt hear about it from someone once the fighting was over.

"Get inside, I'll cover you!" George bellowed as his squad automatic weapon roared deafeningly.

"Craig, go!" John ordered.

Two more cracks from Craig's rifle, before the magazine was spent and ejected, to float aimlessly through the gravityless air. Craig launched himself towards John, who in turn caught the Child Soldier's arm and whirled him into the elevator shaft, following him soon after. John switched his rifle to full-auto, noting he had fifteen rounds left before he would have to switch magazines, and ordered George inside.

John killed three more Humans before George stopped firing, and leapt backwards, into the elevator shaft. The three SIGMA II's didn't hesitate to launch themselves upward, immediately after John tossed a flash-bang into the nexus. The three SIGMA II's rushed up through the elevator shaft, but were quickly accosted from below. John reoriented himself so very little of his body would be visible to the Rebels, and opened fire. He killed one before his magazine ran dry, he ejected it but didn't slap a new one in, he needed bullets down range _now,_ and thus, he reached for his pistol.

But before he could do so, he was tackled to the wall of the shaft.

_"Two fifteen!"_ John heard George call, seeing the teen amble for a handhold on the nearest wall so he could halt himself.

_"I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE!"_ The rebel holding John roared.

John punched the man repeatedly in the stomach with his left arm, feeling the man's stomach crumble and burst with the raw force of his blows, and used his right to attempt to pry the man's hand from his throat, but before he could crush the man's hand with the same effort as crushing a ball of sand, he felt and couldn't resist the instinctual urge to freeze when he saw what was in the man's hand.

_"INHUMAN!" _The Rebel screamed, before he hit the detonator.

Far above them, shaped explosives detonated in a massive fireball. The shockwave sent all in the shaft flying away from the blast for one second exactly, before physics kicked in to overdrive so as to correct its momentary lapse in judgement, and all the air in the shaft began evacuating. Craig and George grabbed on and held to the elevator shaft for dear life, but John, the rebel, and several others were forcibly dragged out. This momentary distraction was what John needed to slam his augmented and biotically assisted fist into the man's gut, shattering his spine, obliterating whatever was left of his stomach, even piercing some of the skin, and killing the man. But John failed to act fast enough, and just as he tried reaching for a nearby piece of jagged metal, he was sucked out into the cold vacuum, just above the Earth.

John immediately felt a sense of overwhelming fear, as he hurtled through the void uncontrollably. He had to calm himself down, he knew he did, he knew what he had to do to calm himself down, but seven years of training did little to circumvent the fact that he was flying through space many thousand kilometers above a planet that would kill him on re-entry or, failing that, let him simply drift uncontrollably through the void until he either ran out of oxygen and suffocated, starved to death, or took the merciful way out and ended things himself.

Acting fast, but perhaps not intelligently, John grabbed the corpse of the rebel before it drifted away, and put it underneath his feet. The momentum he canceled by slamming his feet onto the Rebel's chest was little, but it was enough to slow him down. He didn't have to rip his pistol from its magnetic grip on his hip, however, as none of the rebels they were fighting had Vacuum-Rated Armor, they were all dying upon exposure to it. John's armor, however, instantly sealed itself upon realizing it had been exposed, and John's half hour of Oxygen had begun.

_"John, respond!"_ He heard George's voice roar through the radio.

"Two Fifteen here!" John barked back, as he tried anything, including attempting to swim through space, to halt his momentum.

_"Bio-Comm says your heart rate is rising! Calm down, soldier!"_ Craig ordered, _"think this through!"_ John could see the two's heads appear in the enormous hole in the elevator shaft connecting the two halves of Titan Station.

"I need to halt my momentum! But the explosion ripped my rifle from my back, and my pistol doesn't have enough recoil to do what I need!"

_ "John, what armor are you wearing?" _Craig quietly demanded of his comrade.

It took John only a moment to realize why Craig had asked. _"Optimized Titan Mark-One."_ Titan Armor had small thrusters for this very situation, they weren't powerful - no SIGMA could pull an Iron Man and start flying around in-atmosphere, but in the void, their power was enough to get any SIGMA wherever he needed to go, all John had to do was calm his mind, and halt his momentum. He forced his breath to still and his mind to slow and he recalled his training, a great many of the functions on Titan Armor were contextual, a simple gesture would activate whatever one needed, be it a HardLight shield or the zero-g thrusters. Twitching his fingers and flying through the on-board computers, John found the gesture he needed to activate his thrusters and performed it; almost immediately his momentum was shifted around completely, and he was almost worse off than he had been before. Navigating in the void of space was far more difficult than on a planet, or in a space station, one had to think and move in three dimensions as opposed to two, this was why there were small thrusters on the Titan Suit's shoulders, elbows, calves and boots; such an arrangement couldn't provide a complete three dimensional move-set, but a trained operative could get wherever he needed to so long as he remained smart, conscious of how much fuel he had, and where he was going and how fast.

It took John six burns to fully halt himself, and once he did so he burned lightly so as to orient himself towards the station. Once he was confident he had a good flight-path, he made a brief but powerful pulse that sent him soaring towards the station. One thing that had to be burned - no pun intended - from any prospective space pilot's mind was the almost instinctual desire to hold down the gas and keep the afterburners on, such an action simply wasted fuel and made it harder to maneuver in space, and the intelligence and adaptability this training required was why the Alliance Air and Space Force was a desperately difficult profession to get in to. John vividly remembered how long Ducard had lectured Delta Company when every one of them had made the same mistake during their training; after zero-g training, no SIGMA worth his weight in armor would ever forget Newton's First Law: An object at rest stays at rest and an object in motion stays in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force. In other words, unless something stopped you, you wouldn't _be_ stopped.

Fortunately for John, a lifetime of military conditioning and the training that had been hammered in to his head paid off, and after another brief pulse to slow himself down, he collided with the station and grunted upon doing so, but his mind was already working on their next approach.

"Come on!" He ordered, magnetically clamping his feet to the outer hull. "We move!"

_"Outside?!"_ George demanded, though he was already ambling out. _"Are you mad?"_

"If we pry open another set of elevator doors, another level to Titan Station gets exposed to the Vacuum. That can't happen." John stated, as George passed him an SIR.

_ "Take mine,"_ said George, _"so how do we plan on getting to Ducard?" _

In response, John tapped on the lone fragmentation grenade on his pouch. "Ducard isn't stupid, he will have taken measures to protect him and whomever he is with, against vacuum exposure. The Rebels…" He looked at their corpses, which were slowly leaving sight, though one or two had caught flame upon being attracted by Earth's gravity. "… Not so much."

_ "How do you plan on making sure your grenade stays put?"_ Craig mentioned, as the three made their way across the station.

John considered it a moment, "George has a shotgun." He said simply.

* * *

><p>A SIGMA Operative had few weaknesses, so few that many thought they had effectively <em>none.<em> But the fact was, though they were few, they did indeed have weaknesses. One of the biggest weaknesses to SIGMA Operatives was simple: Great Big Bombs. Anything from Space to Surface missiles, to kinetic strikes, to simple nuclear warheads could effectively eliminate a SIGMA Operative. This was why Hardened Shields were developed for Titan Mk. I's, and HardLight emergency shielding units had been developed for the Mk. II's, to try and circumvent this weakness. Another weakness of a SIGMA Operative was that, as impossible as it was, they _could_ be overwhelmed. Numbers affected _anyone_ and _everyone,_ even the Alliance's Augmented Elite.

Joseph Ducard S1-99 was Titan Station's only resident SIGMA Veteran, and he was currently in Titan's main recreation room, protecting a dozen doctors and surgeons who had no military training. He had honestly been amazed he'd been able to get them all in vacuum suits before the Rebels had shown up, and the battle had begun. He would admit, he had expected the Rebels to attack fervently, but he hadn't expected how quickly they would have arrived, how how on God's blue Earth they would have sneaked _so many people_ in to the Sol System, and therein lied the problem: the Rebels had numbers, firepower, and arguably a greater intent to kill. For Rebels, battling a SIGMA wasn't a matter of life and death, it was a point of pride. To _survive_ a SIGMA Strike was something to talk about, to _defeat_ a SIGMA was the stuff of legend, and they had developed a semi-strategy to do so, when going up against lone squads: Overwhelm them. This was exactly what the Rebels were doing: They were overwhelming Ducard, whose muscles were screaming as he worked them faster than most Humans could, to reload his rifle and continue firing.

Titan Shields were the most powerful of them all, but they could be shattered, and Ducard's were being stressed to the extreme. Every second he spent out of cover sent dozens of rounds into his shields, depleting them to the point of breakage. His armor was tough, but under a wall of fire, someone would get a lucky shot, and soon those lucky shots would pile up, and his life would end, and the life of over six hundred teenagers who had known nothing but military tactics and training, would all be at risk.

Bearing all of this in mind, Ducard forced his body to continue fighting past its normal limits, past its _superhuman_ limits, and past its augmented limits. He was a SIGMA, he would _not_ go down without leaving a mountain of corpses in his wake, and that was just what was happening: He was leaving a mountain of corpses. The Rebels seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of reserves, all rushing forward to cover, the lucky ones actually making it before Ducard could take them out.

Ducard had tried calling for help, but long-range comms were being jammed, and the Rebels were jamming any short-waves out of his room, so he was alone, as he continued firing. Three more Rebels fell to his rifle before it ran dry, he ejected the magazine, letting it join the haze of floating magazines and bullet casings, as he slammed home a new one, pulled the chambering mechanism, and fired more.

This had gone on for more than twenty minutes, and while Ducard's aging body was beginning to feel tired, he knew not to give up, he knew all of the II's were strong, but Delta Company was here, and so was SIGMA II Alpha Squad, someone would come, he _knew_ it.

His thoughts were interrupted by several _loud,_ albeit muffled thumps several meters to his left. His eyes widened as he realized the Rebels must be trying to kill him _and_ the doctors, by exposing them to the vacuum, but his radio squawked a loud squelch of static.

He got very little out of the transmission, but had heard the words 'SIGMA', 'Alpha', and 'breach', and knew help was on the way. Ducard bent behind cover and locked himself to the floor.

_"EVERYONE HOLD ON!"_ Ducard roared, as he looked to his left, just in time to see something glorious.

An enormous blast of violet blue energy exploded the sealed blast doors inward, and tossed aside, before a fiery explosion rocked the cracked window. Immediately the oxygen in the room exploded outwards, and dozens of Rebels were taken with it, but the smart ones - the 'Special Forces' Rebels - were vacuum sealed and quickly magnetically clamped themselves to the floor. The second the oxygen stopped flowing, three SIGMA II's, three _teenagers,_ soared into the room with such precision that Ducard couldn't help but feel proud.

The SIGMA at the center of the pack, clad in his own set of optimized Titan armor, and brandishing 2-15 on its right breastplate, was the first to open fire. His SIR barked several rapid, but silent, three-round bursts, as he leapt to cover. The biggest II began laying down suppressive fire with his light Machine Gun, as the last II hid in the ceiling and took cover, before his marksman rifle began spitting bullets, which shattered the visors of the Special Forces Rebels.

Ducard saw 2-15, who he instantly recognized as _his_ John, make several handsigns. He was saying that they knew that comms were down, but they were working on power. Now, with one SIGMA I veteran, and three SIGMA II Alphas fighting against them, in a vacuum environment, the rebels - who were now limited to the idiots who ran out without vacuum helmets, and thus only had fifteen seconds to attempt to do damage, and the Special Forces - stood no chance. John's precise bursts shattered shields so their marksman could shatter skulls, and George's suppressive fire slaughtered Rebels and froze them in their tracks.

To make matters even greater, not two minutes after the SIGMA II Alpha Team had dove back into the station, did the power turn back on. Immediately energy shields were called up to plug the breech in the Station's armor, and the gravity turned back on. Ducard was fearful for the SIGMA II on the ceiling, but a quick look showed him that he had gotten himself fastened to the rafters and support beams.

The room rapidly repressurized as the lights came back on, so the Rebels could now use their unrelenting force to press down upon the SIGMAs. But the SIGMAs responded with force of their own, and after ten minutes of the fiercest firefighting Ducard had seen since Mindoir, the Rebels eventually stopped coming. John, George, 2-86, and Ducard regrouped in his slice of territory. With the oxygen back, the three could converse audibly.

"What's the situation?!" Ducard demanded.

_"Everyone who's awake is downstairs fighting the invading rebels -"_ Ducard noted with Pride that John had already recognized them as rebels. "- _we sent in another squad to turn on power, but the elevator shaft and armory levels were breached and exposed."_

"Understood."

_"We don't know where the jammer is on this level, but a surgical strike behind enemy lines can get it out of commission so the Alliance can come in with support."_ John finished, _"orders, sir?"_

"John, I want you and your marksman to hit that jammer, we need to reestablish communications with the Alliance, or they'll see the rebel ships and think Titan Station has been compromised." Ducard ordered, "I don't need to tell you what they'll do to keep the rebels from taking the station."

_"Understood, sir!"_

"I'd recommend another EVA excursion, scavenge explosives from the dead. I'll mark on your HUDs where I _think_ would be the most logical place to put a Comm-Jammer, but you'll be on your own after that."

_"Sir yes sir!"_ John saluted, as Ducard transferred the required data to him.

* * *

><p>It took them only a few minutes of forceful strikes with HardLight blades, but John and Craig were able to breech the Station's shields temporarily, in order to get outside and begin another EVA Walk. Their suits' computers said that, at their current pace, they would reach the target insertion point in five minutes. So John S2-15, instead of admiring the view of the Earth above him, relative to his head, he decided to speak with Craig.<p>

_"Two-Eighty Six." _

_ "Yes." _

_ "I know you're a Marksman, I know you're one of the best in the entirety of our generation, and I know your name."_ Said John, _"I would like to know you more if we're going to be on a squad together."_ He said, as their boots clanked on the station's exterior mutedly.

_"What do you want to know?"_ Craig asked.

_"What was your first day like? Where did you come from before Sparta?"_ He didn't even have to ask if Craig _remembered_ his first day, everyone did, the question was whether or not he remembered how he'd changed from a lowly child to a Spartan 'citizen'.

_"It was confusing. I was in an orphanage, and when Doctor Burga came looking for me specifically, I thought I'd finally have a family. I vaguely remember that desire consuming and overwhelming every other one, including the need for sustenance. I do note that I did get it, in a way."_ The detached way the teen spoke of his past told John of the amount of conditioning in his mind, and how much effect it had on him at this age. _"When I woke up on Sparta, I did so from a Cryo Tube, much like the eighty others from Hotel Company. Commander Arben put us under a live fire simulation with simulated mortars. It took us all two hours to get to base, I had to rally everyone to keep 'em sane and focused."_

_"So you're a leader?" _John surmised.

_"I prefer taking orders, if that's what you're suggesting. My skills are better suited to reconnaissance work, and mid to long-range combat." _

_ "Any reason you prefer the scope to the sight?"_ John wondered.

_"Range is safety, Two Fifteen. The farther away I am away from the enemy, the less chance they have of hitting or seeing me, and the greater chance I have of destroying them."_

John nodded, _"I can understand that. Do you have any reasons you fight for?" _

_"Yes."_

_"What are they?" _

_"Before I went to Sparta, I had a sister." _

_ "What happened?" _

_ "I __**had**__ a sister." _

John grunted in affirmation; several seconds passed in silence, _"I had a mother." _

_ "Second Contact War?" _

_ "Mercenary War. My _Father_ was Second Contact." _

_ "Do you remember any of them?" _

_ "Only my mother. Only vaguely... I remember being held tight and the smell of sterilized air." _John said.

Several more seconds passed, _"do you regret this life, John?"_

_"How can I regret the only life I've ever known?"_ John responded.

_"I'm serious."_

_ "I only regretted it for the first year. Then the conditioning kicked in… But then I got to Mindoir, and I really figured out why I fought." _

_ "Why do you fight?" _

_ "The Galaxy is an enormous, dangerous place Craig. No one is safe in it. On Mindoir, I saw a Quarian woman get her head blown _clean_ off… Nothing was left but hamburger meat. But her daughter saw it and she tried stuffing the meat back in her mother's neck, as if she could put her back together." _John recalled, _"I fight so no one else has to feel that pain."_

_"You really saw that?" _

_"Yes."_

_"Hm." _Craig grunted, _"I remember hearing through the grapevine that one of the Deltas had seen action. I know personally that you've got something of a following over in Hotel Company, and I heard Alpha Comp came up with a name for you."_

John had heard rumors he had a name other than his given one, but he'd never heard it himself. _"I've heard. Should I be aware?"_

Craig grinned behind his helmet and shook his head, telling John that he'd rather be able to see the boy's face when he finally heard it for himself. The rest of the walk was spent in silence. John and Craig reached the insertion point, but was frozen when the light from the sun was cut off. Alarmed, John turned around and looked up, to be greeted with an enormous Alliance Carrier, its engines flaring so it would come to a stop above them. The carrier was massive, over two and a half kilometers long and half that wide. John couldn't see its side, and therefore couldn't tell its designation, but he knew it was named after some famous figure in Human History, that was the naming conventions with Alliance Craft Carriers.

A bright light flared upon them, John's eyes and soon after his visor both began adjusting to it. _"Unknown SIGMA team, respond on E-channel three." _

_ "Armor_ works." Said Craig, referring to the infrared strobes that their suits had been wired with.

_"Fake radio trouble, we can't hear them." _John ordered

_ "Got it, prepare to breech."_ John and Craig crouched down on the station, and - using a shotgun he'd taken from a dead Rebel - fired three shotgun shells into the window. The resultant crack was large enough to fit a cluster of grenades into, so he did so.

Now, reaching out with his Biotics, John felt the blast-door right underneath the window. He clenched his fist tightly and felt a dull throb in his brain, before he ripped the blast door from its hinges, crushed it, and tossed it aside. He then pulled the pin on a grenade and leapt outwards. The Grenades exploded, sending oxygen and Rebels alike outside; John burned his thrusters with a powerful, bright pulse and soared in to the chamber. He immediately found what he was looking for, and a dozen Human soon-to-be corpses, their skin expanding to ugly proportions as the air inside of them tried to escape.

_"Jammer top located." _Craig reported, pointing at the machine that was magnetically attached to the ground.

_ "What's your tech score?" _John asked.

_ "Four Fifty." _

_ "I'll take it, then."_

_ "Why? What's yours?" _

_ "Six twelve." _John reported, as he sat down at the Jammer's terminal, which was hanging off of the machine by a wire. John began interfacing with the terminal, safe in the thought that Craig had his back, and his motion tracker wasn't showing anything _but_ Craig. In three minutes he was in, and almost immediately he heard Ducard's voice broadcasting on all channels.

_"Mayday mayday mayday! This is Commander Joseph Ducard S1-99 aboard Titan Station. Rebel Elements have made it within the station and are currently assaulting SIGMAs undergoing Augmentation Recovery, need immediate N7 assistance!" _The Commander called out.

Seconds later, the same voice from the Carrier they had seen earlier came through. _"Commander One-Ninety Nine, prepare for N7 Reinforcements."_

And just like that, the N7 came streaming into the station from every available docking bay. As anticlimactic as it sounded, it only took an hour for the combined SIGMA II, SIGMA I, and N7 forces to clear out the station. In that hour, John - and he did count - had killed eighteen more Human beings. Countless before them, plus eighteen, all Human, all fell to his gun. He thought he should be feeling something _beyond_ a sense of accomplished duty, but he didn't. The feeling, or lack thereof, was odd, it was like he was _supposed_ to be feeling something at his body count, but he wasn't.

Eventually he and Craig linked up with George, and when the battle was over, the casualties were counted. Over fifteen hundred rebels had somehow managed to infiltrate the Sol System, and worse, Titan station. Currently, John was in the Landing Bay with many of the other SIGMA II's, over half of which were ones that were just waking up from recovery, dazed and confused, but ready and alert as they were brought up to speed.

John looked to George, who had his helmet removed, and was walking solemnly to him. John's heart sank, he was about to get bad news.

"How many?" John asked.

"Six."

Six of their brothers. _Dead._ This was what elicited a reaction from John, but not a physical one; he felt an overwhelming feeling of sorrow, and rage, _six_ SIGMA II's had died at the very same hands of the people the Alliance had - at one point - been sworn to protect. Any one of those SIGMAs was worth twenty Rebels, John knew.

But George still looked solemn, "Six people…"

"Half of them were still recovering."

"The other half?"

"Died fighting. Ducard wasn't wrong when he said we'd take down ten times our number, not a single one of them went down without killing far more than they were worth." George looked away for a moment, scanning the crowds with distant eyes, before he sighed deeply, and, like ripping off a band-aid, simply came out with it. "Justin's Dead."


	23. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

* * *

><p><em>Wonders are many, and none is more wonderful than man. <em>

— _**Sophocles, Antigone**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>April 22<strong>__**nd**__** , 2216**_

* * *

><p>Jillian Sampson couldn't hold back an ear-to-ear grin at the look of sheer awe on her blue friend's face, as they two and her father exited Warp, and their ship made way for the New York Spaceport. It had taken no-end of trouble and pulled strings for Bill to get the Asari a ticket to earth, as opposed to Tirven-Alpha, the moon the liberated slaves were being sent to, and though Jillian couldn't see it on Bill's face, he questioned his decision every moment the Asari spent talking. In his own opinion, the alien had spent too much time as a slave and if it was possible for her to recover, it would take a lot more than one Human lifetime for it to happen. Try as he might, though, he couldn't convince his daughter of the same thing, and though she had only been through it for a few days, her days in Batarian space had taken their toll on her psyche as well, and as such he was willing to do anything it took to make sure she healed as best as she could; he simply prayed he wouldn't have to do something drastic if and when the Asari finally cracked.<p>

With that in mind, the veteran Death Dealer ran a hand through his shaggy crew-cut, contemplating retirement from a _long_ and sordid military career, as he simply watched Jillian and the alien interact. Almost the entire trip, Saira had been coming to terms with the very concept of freedom, and was asking Jillian everything under the sun when it came to contemporary life, be it in Citadel space or in Alliance territory. Before they had broken warp and entered the Sol System, the two had been in a deep discussion about the Alliance's standards for education and how it compared to the Asari's. Now, however, the Asari - and some other returning servicemen and women - was pressed up against the open view-ports, marveling at the view of Earth from orbit, as the ship's pilots coordinated with New York Space Control so as to get a clear path for landing. To put it lightly, Bill noted that the alien was acting as if she had never, in her several centuries of life, seen anything quite like what she was witnessing here, and he assumed some of the other soldiers had gotten the same idea, given the hushed voices and odd looks she was getting.

"Goddess!" He heard the alien breathe, as she pointed out something Bill couldn't see from where he was seated, the wonder of entering a planet had _long_ lost its luster for the man, appropriately so, as the view for him typically meant he would be putting his life at risk imminently. OD3's were notorious for their indifference to space-tourism and orbital views of the various planets, be they Alliance or Alien. "What _is _that?_"_

It took Jillian a moment, but she was able to deduce what it was the alien was referring to as the ship began its final retro-burn so as to bleed off the momentum that had been created to leave the Warp, and began angling itself for a descent. "That's the Space Scraper." She said, "it's the biggest man-made building on Earth... Seconded in sheer size only by the Beijing Space Elevator." She explained slowly, not even bothering to mention _how_ tall it was, because Saira had a very rotten concept of size. "It essentially serves as the center for Earth's economic trade, there's a reason people call it the 'Galaxy's Office-Building'." She explained, "it's probably the only building in all of Alliance space that regularly employs Humans, Quarians, and Citadel aliens as well." She mentioned, as the two gazed at the enormous building, with its spire-top and its obelisk base, as they flew past it and to the space port.

"Space elevator?" Saira blinked confusedly, Bill could see the rusted gears that were her mind trying to process Jillian's explanation beyond the simplicity that was 'The Masters said it was so'. That alien thought Batarians walked on water, Bill was certain of it.

Jillian faltered here, but she remembered enough from college to give her a decent enough explanation. "A space elevator is a machine designed to bring materials into space without the need for a space vessel." She looked like she wanted to mention what she did know specifically - the details she had learned in Economics class - but she could tell the simple differences between the Alliance Dollar and the United States dollar would boggle the Asari's mind, let alone the difference between the Alliance Dollar and the Galactic Credit.

"Do you people _really_ live in those... Those... Obelisks?" Saira asked, as the ship lurched and turned itself about to correct its orientation for Earth's gravity.

"Yeah." Said Jillian, taking Saira's outstretched hand. "Are Asari buildings different?" She asked gently.

"I... Do not remember." Saira struggled to say, looking like she physically had to force the words out. "I only remember... Beauty, unmatched." She said, "not like the Masters' buildings." She slipped back in to the automated speech that Bill had been exposed to earlier. "They are spires that stick out of the ground... Like massive needles of steel and cyrothane."

"I see..." Jillian didn't have a response, so the two simply lapsed in to a silence, as the ship made its final descents.

"So... Jillian, what will we see when we land? Will the new masters be waiting for us?" Saira asked, as they neared the New York Spaceport.

The New York Spaceport was the second largest spaceport on Earth. It was located a dozen miles east of the American Statue of Liberty, and every day there were at least a half dozen ships settling down, unloading their passengers, and being towed out. Currently, the NYSP had essentially been rented out by the Alliance, as its maximum ship-capacity was going to be filled to the brim within the next three hours, as dozens of Alliance ships came in to deposit the dutiful Human warriors to the homeworld.

"That's... A question for Dad... Actually." Jillian looked back at her father with a knowing, if slightly pleading smile.

Pushing the thought that his daughter might be realizing the mistake the both of them had made, Bill cleared his throat and answered honestly. "No, no new Masters." He said, "but what will be waiting for us is what always waits for the landers: Pandemonium." He said, "especially during Wartime." He received a few knowing smiles from the soldiers who were listening, and chuckled. "You are going to see Humanity at its best and worst here, Saira."

"Oh?" Saira looked curious, as she turned to look at the veteran, dressed in his OD3 Fatigues.

"You'll see families, friends, husbands, wives, and children, all lined up nut to butt." His daughter looked outraged, but the Asari didn't recognize his idiom at all. "All waving signs and all cheering as they see the Alliance's warriors step down from their ship." He explained, "you'll see hugging, you'll see kissing, you'll see crying and you'll see emotions flying. But most of all, you'll see one thing on the faces of the Human and Quarian soldiers and Marines, that you'll _never_ catch on the Battlefield."

"What is that?" Saira asked, captivated by the veteran's storytelling prowess.

"Hope. Contentedness. Joy." He said, "when they come home, the first thing a Warrior does is embrace his family... Because coming home means he _survived,_ means he's _won._ He did his duty, and even if it's temporary, he can now find solace in the arms of those he loves."

"Do you have a bondmate, mister Sampson?" Saira asked, out of the blue and almost completely out of character.

Bill blinked, a bit taken aback by her suddenness, but recovered soon and gave a laugh, "no... No my wife passed a long time ago. Right before I Leaped on to the Citadel, actually." He said, looking at Jillian with a proud look in his eyes. "Got something good from her, though." He said with a smile, as the ship shuddered to a halt.

"Are we landing?" Saira looked around nervously, not at all comfortable with all of the movement that came with the soldiers and marines excitedly gathering their things and anxiously waiting to disembark.

All around them, the dozens of rows of seats were all filled to the brim with the Alliance's servicemen. All of them were dressed in their fatigues, with their dress-uniforms being at home, serving no use on the battlefield. Ruling the ship were the Black and Green fatigues of the Army and the Black and the Marines' Black and Grey. There were a dozen or so OD3's in their similarly Black and Gray uniforms, and a half dozen N7 sporting their Black and Brown. The color schemes of the Alliance Military's fatigues were designed to intentionally revolve around the color black, it was meant to symbolize that, unlike the Earth Militaries, who used multiple colors, the Alliance was primarily a space-military, and the dark void was jet black, save for the starlight, thus, the dark colors of the Alliance Military Fatigues.

Saira, however, wasn't captivated by the uniforms, not like Bill was and the civilians outside soon would be. She was captivated, and still trying to find a way to cope with, the simple fact that this shuttle ride wouldn't end with her becoming indebted to a single home for centuries; rather the opposite, this _ship_ ride would end with her becoming a free being for the first time in centuries. It was a concept that was almost completely foreign to her mind, she had been in Batarian space for so long that she had forgotten Thessian Standard, it was more efficient to speak Batarian Common, after all, though something in the back of her mind, a place that hadn't even been considered for many centuries, told her that it may be more prudent to learn English instead of Thessian Standard.

Exiting the ship was a simple, and relatively orderly process. When the Alliancemen exited the ship, they were greeting with a beautiful sight: the docking bay was quite literally packed to the bursting point with civilians; men, women, children, husbands, wives, parents, they all were in attendance. Humans, and even the few odd Qurians that had migrated to Earth, were all in attendance, and when they saw the Alliance's finest exiting the ramp leading outside, they all burst into cheers. Many threw up their signs and waved them, some saying 'welcome home', some saying 'thanks for your service', others having similar messages, but more personalized for specific servicemen.

Bill smiled broadly as he stepped down from the cold metal transport machine, and stepped down on Terra-Firma. He could smell the fresh scent of Earth's atmosphere, and when he turned around to see his daughter leading the Asari through the crowds, he knew he wouldn't give up any of it for the galaxy. He chuckled lightly and followed his child, thoughts of retirement, dishonorable discharges and the like all pushed from his mind as he simple enjoyed the moment.

* * *

><p>Where one ceremony on Earth was a time of celebration and happiness, many light years away, on an all-around warmer planet with a much smaller population, the atmosphere was the exact opposite. John-S2-15 stood at attention, it seemed that all of Sparta was silent and dreary upon this day, as the six hundred and six SIGMA II's, and all of the Commanders of the SIGMA Companies - be they I or II - stood in their dress-blues, as the memorial service for the fallen II's was conducted and carried out.<p>

Burial services for SIGMAs were somber affairs; not unlike the burial services of the former Migrant Fleet, fallen SIGMAs were interred for a total of forty eight hours, to allow their brothers time for mourning and respect. After the forty eight hours ran up, the bodies were encased in marble coffins, and launched through the Warp, to Sol. This was so, after they were burned to atoms in the atmosphere of the sun, their bodies would add fuel to the eternal fires that had brought the light and the life to the Human Race. The bodies of the SIGMA Operatives would be incinerated in Sol, to watch over the Sol System, and Earth, for eternity, blessing it and protecting it.

One thing very few people knew about the SIGMAs was their spirituality. The words 'Warrior Cult' could very easily describe them correctly, as they could incorrectly; it was often said that the SIGMAs worshiped their own god, and burned their enemies' bodies to pay homage. Other grape-vines told tales of how each SIGMA's suit of armor had a crucifix welded inside of it and they were given the holy protection of God himself, though the most popular theory was that the SIGMAs had met God in person, decided he was weak, and killed him themselves so they could take his power and use it to protect Humanity. All of the stories, hearsay and tales revolved simply around the actual fact that SIGMAs were dedicated to everything, themselves included, almost to a religious degree. Case in point, the death of a SIGMA - _any _SIGMA - was an intensely personal affair, felt by any and all SIGMAs, be they active duty or retired, and they had very specific ways of how their dead were treated. The SIGMAs were the greatest warriors in Human History, and they were religious in their dedication to protecting the Human Race. Many confused the SIGMAs' goals as to being the protectors of the _Alliance,_ but that assumption was dead wrong, as they protected Humanity, not its government. It was with this in mind that they were cremated in the ashes of Sol, the giver of life for the Human Race.

No SIGMA corpse was ever allowed to stay within enemy lines, many SIGMAs believed that the soul of the Operative would spoil and thus would haunt the battlefield forever, constantly searching for his body, constantly searching for a place to rest. During the entire existence of the SIGMA Program, not a single SIGMA Operative that had been KIA, had their corpse stay behind enemy lines for more than two days, though the longest recorded missing SIGMA body had been during the Second Contact War, when one body had been declared unrecovered during the Second Contact War. Due to the fact that all SIGMAs had at least some kind of identifying themselves after death - even if their bodies were blown to pieces and only small bits of gore remained - it had been unanimously decided on Sparta that they had done the unthinkable and _missed_ one of their dead during the cleanup operations on Palaven. John Doe and the Alpha Squad had nearly started a war when they had mounted an unsanctioned rescue operation so they could recover the body after it had been in Turian hands for a month, though they had covered their tracks well, and to this day no one knew how the base that held the body had been burned to the ground.

Another commonality in SIGMA Deaths was their helmet. The Gas Mask/Helmet combo, while having been the design of Jason McGraw, the man who made Titan Armor possible, was as much a part of a SIGMA as his augmentations were. The Helmets of the SIGMA, upon his death, were kept with the body until it was sent for solar cremation, afterwords, the SIGMA's ID Tag was carved into the helmet, which was hung in the Hall of the Dead, the only exceptions being those unfortunate few who had had their heads blown completely apart. Sparta's Hall of the Dead was, quite literally, the largest building on the planet, and it was dedicated to one thing, and one thing only: Storing the helmets of the dead SIGMAs.

To that effect, when the funeral services were held, everyone in attendance wore their helmets, as opposed to the head-wear of their dress uniforms. To SIGMAs, there was no differentiation between one another, not in Death, so at the funerals, everyone's face was covered. Everyone was anonymous. Everyone was equal.

Ducard and the eight other Commanders of the SIGMA II Trainees stepped forth. There were no words spoken at SIGMA Funerals, words were precious resources, they could be the difference between life and death on the battlefield. One miscommunication could get an entire battalion killed in an instant. When a SIGMA died, no words were spoken in his memory, because no amount of of the precious resource that was language, could bring back the dead. Speaking in their memory was, in essence, highlighting their failures by using that which they lost first, in death: the ability to communicate.

The Commanders unfolded eight flags, over eight coffins, one by one. With a solemn silence they laid the flag of the Alliance down upon the coffin. Without a word, they saluted the dead, the II's returned the salute, and for five seconds they held it. Ducard nodded, and the Commander dropped the salute. The eight Commanders stepped over to the podium, and firmly pressed the lone silver button upon it.

To SIGMAs, the Warp was a weapon, not a means of travel. The SIGMAs would spend their lives alongside their weapon, and the Warp was no exception. SIGMAs used the Warp to attack their enemies and defend their people. No other species utilized the Warp, but that simply meant they had to defend it all the more ferociously. In spite of the fact that utilizing Warp Drives in-atmosphere was damaging to a planet's ecosystem, the SIGMAs used it anyways, it was all they could do to honor their dead, by sending them to eternity, alongside such a perfect weapon as the Warp.

Still maintaining a silence that even Sparta's environment didn't dare shatter, lest it invite the never-ending ire of the perfect warriors, the eight Commanders strode forward. The six coffins, each weighing many hundreds of pounds, were all pushed by the helmeted Commanders without any assistance. Due to the fact that there were six coffins and eight Commanders, the leftover Commanders sprang to a salute, becoming still as a statue as the Augmented Elite sent their dead to their eternal resting place.

The last coffin was pushed into the Warp, and the entry point was sustained for twenty one seconds before they closed shut. The silence was maintained for fifty seconds, as all present held up a salute. Finally, the Commanders dropped their hands, as did the II's. The Commander of Alpha Company, Salvador Delszin S1-6 stepped up and activated his smart watch, his voice was amplified as he spoke into it.

_"This will not be the last time you experience the death and burial of your own."_ Delszin stated, _"you can not change their deaths... But take every action to avenge them, for tomorrow, you go to war."_ He cut the watch and the eight Commanders saluted the six hundred six recently augmented Child Soldiers.

The Teenagers returned the salute, and now, with the burial over, they made their ways back to their respective companies' barracks, to prepare for their first war the next day.

* * *

><p>After the funeral, however, came two separate events for two separate groups of people. The teenaged Twos would recover from the shock of losing their own and their first taste of battle - though certainly not their last - and would mourn their fallen. The Ones, however, would all gather in the building they'd had built a half decade ago, when the Twos had finally started showing a universal improvement: Their Officers' Quarters. Unfortunately for the Ones, they wouldn't be discussing ranks or anything of the sort, much the opposite, they would be discussing their own reaction to what had happened above Earth. Things had largely gone according to plan, but the Human element did - as it often proved to do - turn things closer to their head than the Ones would have liked.<p>

They all sat down around a round table, the eight Company Commanders silently waiting for them all to be ready as the bright, sterile lighting beat down on their bare heads. Once they all sat, Commander Yancy of Charlie Company began. "First order of business should be you, Ducard. I heard you took quite a few hits... Finally getting old?" He grinned.

"Up yours." Ducard responded, flipping Yancy the Bird. "I'll only retire once John takes the stick out of his ass and finally gives me his name." And everyone knew what that meant: Over his dead body.

"Quaint." Said the Commander of Bravo Company, his voice the lightest of the bunch and his frame just a bit skinnier, but despite this he managed to be one of the most imposing of the group, which said something, given that they all were superhumans who had individually seen more death and destruction than most generations had put together. "Now that that's out of the way, I want to hear about what happened to Two-Fifteen. How was he punished?"

Ducard sighed deeply, but he didn't resolve to lie. The SIGMAs had enough problems on their plate, adding in doubt amongst their ranks would not help things at all. "Who here knows the name Edward Spokane?" No one spoke up, he shook his pale, shaven head. "I thought so. We need to speak to the General and put him on the Blacklist." He stated.

The air in the room turned serious in an instant, the Blacklist was something of a legend even amongst the SIGMAs. It was, quite literally, the list of the largest threats to Mankind that the SIGMAs knew about. To date, less than twenty names and organizations had been put on that list, with the top two threats being a resounding Extra-Terrestrials in first place, and the Turian Ghosts in second. The only Human being to ever have his name put on that list was Christopher McGraw, and everyone present knew it.

"A blacklist doesn't get removed, Ducard." Alpha Commander warned, with a serious look set in his dark features. "What makes you suggest this? How can one man be as dangerous as _Christopher McGraw_?" Just because he was a genius didn't mean he was peaceful - he had been inducted because he'd created the Twos, after all, and their decision had been proven when the Twos had proven to be so effective during the war scenarios. Worse still was that he was so enigmatic and loose with his alliances, had he been loyal to his race specifically, they may have more heavily considered their decision, but he wasn't, so they hadn't.

"When I brought Two-Fifteen in and detained him, Spokane appeared without any warning and hijacked the entire ordeal. I somehow managed to convince him that John was a One, and he never saw him so he had no reason to doubt me, but that man has power and technology and he's not afraid to use it."

"How can you tell?" Asked Yancy, "what scale?"

"McGraw scale." McGraw was one step under 'Sufficiently Advanced', he was literally beyond the point of modern Human capability, and SA was anything alien that couldn't be explained without someone from the AATF, the people whose job was literally to explain unexplainable alien technology. "He had a device that successfully went in to Two-Fifteen's mind and rewrote it. Anything and everything to do with SIGMA Two-One Oh Six was either hidden from him or erased entirely, replaced with memories of a phantom SIGMA designated Two- Six-Thirteen." Ducard explained.

"You just said you convinced this Spokane that the kids were Ones. If he was able to replace Two-Fifteen's memories so thoroughly there is no way he didn't know." Yancy pointed out.

"And if this Spokane wiped his memory, how the hell do we know Two-Fifteen is still viable as a soldier? What training did he do when Two-One Oh Six arrived? For how long was it? A month? That's a month of his life _gone,_ what influence did she have on him?" Alpha Commander asked in rapid fire, "how is it even possible to wipe memories? What effects would it have on the kid?"

"I don't know." Ducard admitted truthfully, "it was an extremely poor lapse in judgement that led me to let this man do what he did, but that is exactly why he needs to be on the blacklist, a man who is as capable as that and has technology that may very well _be_ sufficiently advanced, we can't let him run around unchecked." Ducard said firmly, but he waved his hand after a moment's silence. "Where that tech from and how he knows what he knows is an investigation for another day, we can get one of the retired Ones' kids to look in to it for us. What we _need_ to discuss is how the Rebels got so many men in to the Solar System without us being ready for it." He stated, "I am well aware that the entire battle was Doe's idea, to plant the leak within their ranks so we could test damn near everything we've _taught_ the Twos, but how did fourteen hundred rebels get in-system? We _can't_ hide that from the Alliance, worse, the Alliance can't hide that from the UN. Tensions are already high thanks to what Two-Fifteen did in Australia, but when word of this gets out, the UN may very well have grounds to suspect that the Alliance can't properly defend them."

"The Twos took them down with only six casualties. We can use that." Said Echo Company's commander, Berrough. "Spin a few stories, it was SIGMAs who were waiting augmentation who took 'em down. No augments, just out of training, that can do a lot for morale."

"Morale isn't what matters right now, you want to boost morale you shoot a planet a few dozen times." Alpha Commander waved it aside, "Ducard has a good point. We need to go forward to the Alliance before they start suspecting us of foul play."

"We're goddamn SIGMAs, and they don't trust us." Yancy leaned back and sighed deeply, "I should've retired after Palaven." He muttered.

"You were on Palaven?" Echo asked.

"Got out of augment recovery _the damn day_ after Earth got cleared out." He said, with mirth hidden inside his voice.

"Off topic." Ducard reminded the two, "they Alliance is worried every day that we'll call Sixty Six. The ones who _know_ about it_,_ that is." He shrugged, "they've been trying to enull that since the day the Council reared its head and we had to fight the Turian Ghosts. They want an army of supersoldiers, not vigilant warriors." Ducard then groaned, and shook his head. "I remember back in the first war... Things were a lot simpler then. Go here, kill them, but don't kill these ones. No politics, no in-fighting between Humans, no exposition, just... _War."_

"Off topic." Foxtrot's Commander said firmly, "The Twos. We lost six of them."

"Half of those three weren't even awake, and we were expecting to lose ten. That says something." Bravo's Commander said pointedly.

"So. They passed?"

"I'd say so." Said Alpha's commander, and everyone soon agreed. The tension soon began dispersing, everyone was glad that it was more or less over. "Good... So, anyone here watch football?"

* * *

><p><strong><em>April 23rd, 2014<em>**

* * *

><p><em>God damn... This cafe has grown in the last decade... I never noticed it until now.<em> McGraw, like clockwork, had found an excuse to go to the 'Bire and Bur' cafe at least once per month ever since he had fallen in love with the place in the aftermath of the Second Contact War. The first time he had visited the cafe he'd had his first taste of alien food in the form of an Asari steak that, he'd later learned, had come from an animal that, like Asari themselves, was born with element zero integral in their DNA. The result hadn't been a red-sand level of biotic display, but he had noticed a distinct difference in his visual perception for a few hours.

As it turned out, though McGraw was oblivious to the fact, this cafe had been the very first alien eatery that had ever catered to a Human being in all of recorded history. That fact alone had brought the once struggling cafe to one of the most visited restaurants on the Citadel, and given McGraw's continued presence in the place, many scientists and engineers the galaxy over often stopped by at least once, hoping to meet the enigmatic engineer and confirm the rumors and hearsay about his personality.

Today, however, McGraw was largely ignoring everyone present as he contemplated the previous stop on his sojourn across space. He had made an unscheduled and unannounced visit to an old friend, one of the few from the Second Contact War that he kept in contact with. While he would have _loved_ to show up and bother the former Director, Jason Whyte, who was apparently enjoying retirement on one of Eden's moons, Jason hadn't been the one to have lost a family member to war. No, McGraw - and, by request and through lack of choice in the matter, Miranda - had visited the former Admiral, Talo'Sahn. Though, given the circumstances, he had correctly assumed that her name would have been changed to Talo'Zorn vil Sahn, as she was a widow, now.

Talo had been understandably shocked that McGraw had shown up so unannounced, but being the person she was, she hadn't been able to deny him at least a few hours of her time. She was still in a state of shock over her husband's death, according to her - and backed up by the reports he'd pilfered from Alliance Intelligence - he had died honorably, on the field of battle, though she had had a horrible time of dealing with his death, and had been hopelessly befuddled by how Humans handled their burials. McGraw understood it, of course, burials on the former Migrant Fleet weren't times of mourning and grief, but of celebration. Humans mourned their dead, Quarians celebrated the new ancestor and remembered who he or she was, so Talo had understandably been at a loss for words when she had seen the mourners arrive in dark clothing and saw the stage get set for a somber affair.

The visit had ended up having a thoroughly planned-for bonus, however, and it was said bonus that had McGraw's mind working in overdrive because, in short, her son had fascinated him. Jorell - who McGraw had mercilessly teased because of his name, though no one in attendance had understood the joke - was, by all accounts, just a marine's son and an Admiral's child, but McGraw knew that there was far more than simply met the eye in this situation. Unfortunately, he hadn't had any time to attempt to discern in detail what made Jorell _seem_ special in the same way John _was,_ as it had been made quickly and readily apparent that the aspiring-Marine did _not_ like him.

_I need to look through the AATF darklist again... I swear I saw The Lines on Jorell's face. _Thought McGraw, as his waitress came by and deposited his and Miranda's food. _The question is, does He know? If he does, what will he do about it? If I show interest in this kid, will he try and remove him from play? But if I don't do anything and he _is_ one of them, that means he could end up wasting his potential. This is all assuming QGF 1-B even made it out out of the lab. But if it did, why the hell would the AATF choose an Admiral's kid to test it on? Refuge in Audacity? Or maybe they didn't know when the little thirteen year old alien came waltzing in and demanding his shots... I have to assume He knows better than I, so what do I do? Gamble and leave him alone, or put him at risk by moving the pieces? An untouched bishop could be as much of a strength as it could be a hindrance... Damn it._ It was when he made that final thought that he noticed that the teenager he'd unofficially adopted was all but glaring at him, though he ignored her for a moment to begin stuffing his face. _Play it safe. Don't get involved directly, but that damn kid's a patriot and his mom's trying to get him to do something to make him stop... His comment on getting 'Vas' tacked on to his name might be the key... I think I need to call up Joran again, see if I can't spark up the Pilgrimage debates again... At least it'd shut them up about the Geth for a few years._ He shook his head.

Now with his mouth furposefully filled to the bursting point, so as to hide the serious air that had gathered around him, McGraw's words were muffled by the delectable steak. "Whutchoolookinat?" He asked, "fumfinonmuhfathe?" He reached up and dragged a thumb across his cheek, it came way clean.

Largely nonplussed by his absolute lack of table manners, Miranda spoke her mind. "McGraw, we've been here for two days and I still don't know _why."_ The raven-haired teen complained as the engineer carnivorously tore into his Asari steak.

"Lady, one thing you'll learn from this conversation." Said Christopher McGraw, wiping away some grease that had collected on his chin thanks to his earlier display, "is that it is _not_ one you'll want to miss." He was tempted to to make a joke about how everyone was waiting for this meeting to happen, even if they didn't know it yet, but he doubted Miranda would have gotten it at all.

"But _who_ are you meeting here that's two days late?"

"Probably the only living alien I respect intellectually." Said McGraw, "he's got one hell of a speech impediment, though..." He shuddered for effect, "I've known space-rabbits who couldn't _fuck_ as fast as this guy talked."

"What?!" Miranda looked revolted, and McGraw grinned, he very much enjoyed getting under the teen's skin.

"In other words -" McGraw cleared his throat and took a sip of water, "- the extremely light heavyweight match-up of the smartest members for their respective species."

"He's so smart... And he's two days late?"

"A wizard is never late, nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to." McGraw grinned, causing Miranda to groan as she began eating her own meal, flipping through a book on her Smart-Watch as she did.

However, her progress was halted just a moment later when a new patron arrived and made straight for their table, speaking the moment he came within earshot of the two. "Excellent point. However, prefer term, two days early." Said the new patron, his tone light and fast in speed.

McGraw grinned maliciously, but stood gleefully. "And it's the gecko of the hour!" He extended his cybernetic hand.

Casually strolling in from the wide entrance of the cafe one of the most recognizable Humans in the frequented was a Salarian. He was as tall as McGraw, if not only a few inches higher. He wore a white Salarian scientist's uniform, with red decals stretching about in seemingly random places, including his torso, his arms, and his boots. His skin was a dark orange shade, save for the dark mole-like spots on his forehead and cheeks, and the pale yellow stretch of skin on his lower face. His two bug-like eyes were wide open in the characteristic Salarian 'glare', though the slight smile on his face dashed all thoughts of ill-will.

"Salarians are amphibian, mister McGraw." The Salarian noted lightly, as he extended a three-fingered gloved hand to shake McGraw's cybernetic extremity. "How is the new limb?" The Salarian wondered.

"If I do say so myself, the damn thing's working like it did on day damn one. I would've appreciated some kind of metallic shell to act as a sort of 'skin', so it could appear less skeletal, but you can't win 'em all." Said McGraw with a shrug, after the two released each other.

Intrigued, Miranda took a good, hard look at McGraw's metallic limb. From what she'd read on the internet, and gleaned from the man himself, McGraw's need for a cybernetic replacement had come from the car accident which had claimed his mother, many decades ago. He had made the limb from scratch when he was a teenager, and from what she'd heard on the MSS, every other month he could be found tinkering with it. The current 'model', for lack of a better term, that adorned McGraw's shoulder socket did, indeed, have a slight alien air to it; it was still distinctly Human, with its skeletal appearance, but something about its finer details seemed non-human. Miranda had no way of knowing that this particular Salarian had met with McGraw before, and when they came to the discussion about the Council's archaic limb-prosthetic technology, or lack thereof, the two had spent weeks working together to create a sort of omni-_limb,_ a cybernetic limb that could be universal for any species. During the creation of said technology – which McGraw had given the Salarian total credit for – the two had also spent thirty six hours straight completely redesigning McGraw's own limb, the secrets of the arm were known only to the two scientists.

The Salarian blinked and inclined his head, his eyes whipping back and forth as they went over details, files and data that only the Salarian could see. "Skin? Simple." He said, as the two sat down at opposite ends of the table. "Considering previous design flaws... Nanites, collectively capable of recreating the texture of Human skin and extending the pressure-sensors of your limb. Also, capable of dispersing, so as to use _other features." _He nodded, "also, legal to use, given status as Alliance citizen." He smiled, "should take half standard day to create."

McGraw laughed boisterously, "oh Jesus Christ, Solus, I was kidding, I don't _actually_ want cyber skin. God forbid, that'd make me seem Human!" Chris continued laughing, and the Salarian simply kept his smile up.

"Wait..." Miranda looked at the Salarian, "Solus? Where have I heard that name before?_"_ She looked from the Salarian to the Human, back to the Salarian.

Solus, however, disregarded Miranda's question the moment his bug-eyes were lain upon her. They widened to an impossibly larger size as he took her in. "Hm..." He looked intently at Miranda.

_Oh, this'll be good. _"Now, listen closely, kiddies." McGraw grinned.

Solus scooted his chair closer to the teen, who backed up an inch in response. "Human, female, young... Definitely within required age... Daughter? No." Solus spoke at speeds that would have made Miranda do a double take had she not been staring directly at him; she was amazed that his mind was moving so fast, and even more so that his mouth could _keep up. _Was this how McGraw thought, all the time? If so, how on earth was he able to slow himself down to talk the way he did? "No. McGraw pursuing asexual existence, no desire for children. Genetic differences, too, raven hair, deep blue eyes, smooth skin of different tone and color with direct lack of freckles and other such blemishes." He leaned in closer, causing Miranda to lean back as far as she could, his eyes were scanning every visible inch of her body without shame, taking in every detail and memorizing it. "Eyes deep blue, like Earthen ocean. Hair dark, not black, not gray. Skin flawless, defying pubescent Human consistencies. Lips full, bust developed, almost romanticized appearance – yes!" A pause as he inhaled deeply, "must ask – are you daughter of Lawson?"

Miranda blinked, "how -?"

"He's STG, Miranda." Chris said quietly, so no one would hear, he knew how finicky the STG was about operational security. "He knew about you before _Jackie_ did. He just had to fill in the dots."

"Interesting... Had heard of violent intervention of Lawson household, Alliance military garrison had intervened to quell with PMC forces chasing fleeing children. Unprecedented given Alliance normal areas of operation on Earth. Tensions increased between Earth and Alliance as result." Solus looked to McGraw, as he leaned back and returned to his previous position at the table. "Did not leave her for adoption. Took her in. Genetic superiority - perhaps, kindred spirit?" Once she translated what he'd said, Miranda's gaze too went to McGraw, as this was a subject she'd never truly gotten an answer for.

"That one took a few leaps of logic, Solus" McGraw grinned, "the way you weren't at all surprised when you saw her and started analyzing her, you already _knew_ she was accompanying me, which means that the Special Tasks Group knows as well, by proxy. And if you and the STG know, it's not at all hard to think that they've already got a half dozen theories as to why I'm keeping her and what the possible outcomes could be of the Mind of Humanity taking on a student." He noted how Solus hadn't even twitched as he'd spoken; McGraw leaned in close, "why don't you tell me what you _really_ want to ask? Drop the pretense for a minute."

Solus responded instantly, "possible that she may obtain your intelligence without your weaknesses?" He rested his elbows on the table and interlocked his fingers. "Many possibilities. Advancing Human genetics, perhaps attempting to reverse damage done to mind, maybe - yes!" Solus perked up, "successor?"

McGraw chuckled, "she reminds me of me when I was her age..." But a thought occurred to him and McGraw looked at Miranda for a moment, his gaze drifting south as he considered her. "Well, minus the boobies. Mine weren't as developed when I was her age." Miranda's eyes widened as she felt her face heat up, causing the immature Human adult to laugh.

"Interesting..." Solus noted that McGraw hadn't actually answered any of his questions, but nonetheless looked at Miranda for another moment. "Must ask personal question." His tone said it was a request, rather than an order with no choice.

"Err... Go ahead?"

"Why choose to leave pampered life? Could have had anything - fame, fortune, power, men, women, perhaps a seat on the Board of Directors if dedicated. Yet decided to run away with a..." Solus looked at McGraw, trying to come up with a good designation.

"Dumbass?" McGraw suggested, his wit as fast as the Warp.

"Scientist." Solus nodded.

"Better." The Scientist grinned and cut a bite off of his steak.

Miranda pondered her answer for a moment, before she decided that partial truth was better than no truth. "I decided that living with a... Dumbass scientist -" McGraw nearly choked on his steak, "- was far better than living with my father."

Solus seemed satisfied, "would love to get a blood sample, some day."

"Not now, Mordin." McGraw advised, gulping down a large glass of water to wash down the last of his steak. "Now we talk shop."

"Right." Mordin flagged down an Asari waitress and placed his order, before he looked to McGraw. "Continuing off of discussion of antimatter fusion reactions."

"No! Fuck that noise, my brain still hurts!" Said McGraw, acting as if the conversation the two had had over a year ago had only ended a few moments previously. "Sure, it'd look cool in a sci-fi book, but I'm somewhat terrified to try it. Regular annihilation produces energy _just fucking fine,_ imagine if we made a god damn nuke out of fused antimatter. That's the kind of B-S that breaks universes."

"Makes them, too." Said Solus, "as well, reliable production of antimaterials would make for good catalyst for Fusion reactions."

"Yeah, if this were twenty-twenty and we barely had any idea of what we were doing." McGraw challenged, "this isn't the twentieth, or the twenty first centuries. We don't need _big_ explosions to make Fusion, we've had the technology to make 'cheap' fusion ever since the twenty-one thirties." He paused, and then acted on a particularly annoying thought came to mind, "and don't get me started on how many people have bet me to jump-start our progress on cold fusion. I had that shit down in college, so the entire AATF should be able to do it in half the time."

"_You_ have had the technology." Solus pointed out. "Our fusion reactions still cost a decent amount of money. Last great breakthrough was fission battery, which Alliance outdid with fusion batteries."

"Good point." McGraw waited a moment as the Asari waitress brought Solus his food, and then brought up a new point. "I thought the Council _had_ Fusion tech, though? Not as cheap as the Alliance's, mind, but I thought it was pretty easily accessible. _Antimatter_, on the other hand."

"Ill-informed." Said Solus quickly, "do possess ability to achieve fusion. Have possess ability to manufacture antimatter since discovery Citadel. Just -" He inhaled deeply, "- never nearly as cheaply as Alliance. Use of antimatter propulsion seen on Frigate through dreadnought. Citadel lost great deals of money when Alliance standardized cheap Antimatter." He mentioned offhandedly, without even a pause for breath.

"Ergh, stop talking about poopy energy." McGraw groaned, "I figured that crap out after First Contact. Hell, I could build a Dyson Shell if I wanted, let's talk about something interesting... _Challenging... _what about..." He considered the countless ideas that banged around in his head, "AI Starships?"

Solus didn't miss a beat, "technology already exists in Alliance territory. Many ships meant for stealth are AI-only so as to cut down on space needed." Mordin commented, "looking for something else... Related to Geth? Have heard of Quarian attempts to make Alliance take stance on Persius Veil. STG very interested in Human-Geth war scenarios." He monologued, cutting into the Salarian meal he'd ordered.

"Nah, I already know what'll happen when we've got to talk to the Terminators. I'm thinking something... A whole hell of a lot larger than the Geth." Said McGraw, "I'm not talking ships with AI's integrated into them... I'm talking _sentient starships,_ FTL Super-Dreadnoughts that can think, pilot, and act for themselves."

"Heard of Arcturus Incident." Said Solus, "possible relation. Suggesting aged AI uprising?" He wondered.

"Yeah, let's go with that." Miranda, eating her own food, was barely keeping up with the conversation, though she was intensely interested in what McGraw was digging for. "The AI's have access to the most advanced technology in the galaxy, so they've obviously got to have some sort of adamantine... Or maybe even Tuning armor. Coupled with advanced Mass Accelerator, or maybe even Particle Beam weaponry, they'd be a force to be reckoned with... The only problem I'm having is figuring out just how a Sentient Starship would work." He said slowly.

"Specify." The Salarian's interest had too been piqued.

"Well, for starters, what would the ships _look_ like?" McGraw wondered, "AI's would need to rule the naval front to rule the terrestrial front, so they'd have to take the battle to the one and only place Navy Ships aren't used to fighting: Point fraggin' blank." He explained, "but the problem with that is the law of conservation of momentum. They just pop up next to a ship and they'll keep going, but strapping engines on all sides of the thing would be wasteful, and doing what the Alliance does – Warp Cancelling – would be too predictable." Miranda couldn't help but think McGraw was _leading_ the Salarian.

"Simple." Said Solus, "would need semi-organic form to regulate point-blank travel." A pause, "perhaps similar to insectoid or oceanic creatures, AI ships land directly upon organic ships. Momentum Conservation Law... More or less... Circumvented."

"I thought about that... But MAG Guns and MAC Guns would be more or less self-destructive at those ranges. If they were designed after insects – the ships had legs, with gravity tethers in other words – they would need devastating weapons that wouldn't destroy when firing point-blank, but also be useful at longer ranges." McGraw said, leaning back in his chair. "I thought about particle beams, but outside of my AMPB, there aren't any energy-weapons in _existence_ with the required range."

Solus was silent for several consistent seconds, "mass-accelerated water? No, too bulky, would be inefficient for interstellar travel." The Salarian thought aloud, "MAC and MAG weaponry too dangerous for point-blank, unshielded strikes. Energy weapons lack required range, plasma generation possible but would take energy away from more useful functions -" The Salarian inhaled deeply, "what of slag weaponry?"

"Say that again?"

"Molten metal _weaponized."_ Solus said, "using Element Zero, could feasibly fire molten metal at great speeds. Powerful enough to be formidable for a naval engagement, contained enough to be used in close-quarters, but solid enough to be used at range. Kilotons of precision damage, tear through Alliance Dreadnoughts with ease."

"Oh, _Slag_ guns." Said McGraw, "must've been an error with the translator." He shook his head, "where'd you get the idea?"

"The need for close-quarters safe but long-range capable weaponry eliminated, as discussed, MAC, MAG, and Energy Weaponry. Explosive weaponry is possible, but many similar reasons exist why they cannot work." Solus explained, "but thought of experimental Turian weaponry – centuries in the making, centuries still until viable as naval weapon -" The Salarian cut himself off.

"Jesus _Christ_ you talk fast!" McGraw couldn't help but exclaim, he stuck a finger in his ear, pantomiming that he was hard for hearing.

"Sorry... Will, try, to, slow, down... No no no, no time, good subject." Solus shook his head, he took another bite of his food and continued speaking, "as was saying, the 'Hydro Cannon' – so to speak – could be utilized using Mass Accelerator technology. Combined with warp travel, weaponry can be accelerated far faster than would normally, thus, hundreds of kilotons of contained damage, little threat to self, maximum threat to enemy." He said, "with correct ship design, could be used as close range devestator, long range naval engagement, and perhaps even anti-aircraft defense and ground support. Given autonomous nature of ship, massive stores of metal could be stored with little regard for crew - or lack thereof."

McGraw nodded, "such a weapon would be as much of a weakness, as it would be a strength." He noted. "It'd need a _hell_ of a lot of energy to work. That'd present a problem."

"As do many main weapons." Solus retorted, "would protect with armor. Precise fire would be needed to destroy the weapon, ship could follow soon after."

"But that'd end up being a _really_ small target... And given since we're assuming that they've got the same metal that protects Tuning Gates, protecting them, how would you beat them in a slug fest?" McGraw pressed.

Miranda looked at McGraw funnily, the answer was clear to _her,_ so why didn't he see it? Was he _trying_ to lead the Salarian? It would make sense, the Salarian looked as excited as she was confused.

"As previously stated, would need semi-organic design similar to that of an insectoid or oceanic creature." Said Solus, "once shields pierced, limbs would be biggest weakness. But, antimatter weaponry, instant victory."

"But the only ships with engines big enough to use the AMPB are Dreadnoughts and Flagships..." McGraw scratched his chin, "that'd have to change. Maybe we could fill rail-slugs with antimatter cores? Those'd do damage."

"But would be very difficult to control and contain. Would have to be wired in to specialty ships, likely Frigates, for hit-and-run attacks." Said Solus, "but with Warp, could negate the need for such a risk of close range." He said, before he changed subjects abruptly. "Must ask... Where did topic come from?" Solus wondered, "_very_ specific questions for a mere academic discussion... Hidden motives? Personal goals? Know something I do not?" He said quickly, "AI situation worse than expected? Fear revolt? Foreign threat, perhaps?"

McGraw grinned, but chose his words carefully. "Mordin, when I know more about what we were just discussing, _you'll_ know more." McGraw said slowly, "trust me."

* * *

><p>Long after the dinner had concluded, the two Humans were back inside McGraw's ship.<p>

Miranda finally broke the silence, "McGraw -" but was interrupted by the lightning-witted Human.

"You know, we've known each other for months now and you still call me McGraw... Talo _barely_ knows me and she calls me Chris... What the hell?"

Miranda Lawson stared at her unofficial foster father as they got situated in the latter's ship. It would still be several minutes before the Sky-Way would clear up so McGraw's ship could find space enough to take off and hit Warp, and as such the two were sitting in the small area that was the mess hall, with a television broadcasting the news to the wall to their right. Miranda, not yet having changed out of the dress she'd worn for the Lunch, wore a slight scowl on her face as she digested McGraw's question.

"The same reason you don't call your father 'Jason', McGraw."

"Oh please, I called my Dad an 'Asshole' on my eighteenth birthday, and moved the fuck out." Chuckled the elder Human.

Miranda waited a few moments before she pursued her original question, "so... We waited forty eight hours – and countless hour-long elevator rides – for a two hour lunch?"

"Well, let me tell you something, dates that last longer than three hours tend to end one of two ways, someone crashing at someone else's house, or a bad movie that's within a budget."

"What?"

"We were just talking to one of the smartest minds in Citadel Space. Some things are worth it."

"All you did was present a half dozen hypothetical situations, and then get into a five minute long discussion on the topic of Eezo FTL through the Warp... How is _that_ worth it?" She demanded, "and I could tell you were _leading_ that Salarian! There is no way you don't know the answers to those questions yourself, you're too smart for that."

At this, McGraw smiled, "awe, you do pay attention. Tell me, anyone on the Moose tell you about Project VANGUARD?" Miranda shook her head, "well, without spoiling too many details which would be better left for a later date, Cerberus has to implant ideas." McGraw explained, "on all factions we've got missions running to plant our ideas. Not 'Humanity First', but something a bit more... _Global._ For example, you hear about that incident on Thessia? Where the proposed Omni-Tool Alpha malfunctioned like crazy and burned the circulatory systems of _anyone_ using it? That was VANGUARD."

"Wait, what?! That was _Cerberus?!"_

"Of course it was. Only real effective way to implant an idea is to create tension."

"And speaking to a Salarian about Sentient Starships is supposed to implant an idea, and make tension?"

"Actually, that one was the more blunt of the missions. My cell and Timmy's are both dealing with the direct influence, while the other cells are dealing with the subtle, long-term. The Alpha is an example of the long-term."

"What's the difference?" Miranda asked, as the ship rocked, Gladys successfully getting them into a gap in the Human traffic lanes, large enough to conduct a Warp.

"One might result in warfare we'll recognize... One will result in warfare we _won't_ recognize."

Miranda stared at the grinning Human for several moments, "you can be very cryptic when you want to be... McGraw."

Chris grinned, "please, lady, I can talk for an entire chapter, and not have anyone learn anything interesting unless they think about it hard, afterwards." He left her with that as a feeling of acceleration hit both of their stomachs, though Chris did manage to receive a message just before his ship hit the warp.

Chris got entered the elevator, and read the message as he was lifted into his room. The grin very quickly fell off of his face.

_TIM, _

_I have just intercepted Alliance Communications, and felt that the subject matter was relevant to you. _

_~The Illusive Man_

_**Classified:** Eyes Only _

**_Report is as follows: _**

_As of 0347, MST, All Radio/Communications Signals from SIGMA II Designate: **2-15** have ceased, following his disappearance on-mission. _

_Until further notice, **S2-15** is hereby declared: **Missing In Action. **_


	24. Chapter 22

_A/N:_

_Hello!  
><em>_I'm back!_

_Much as I tried to avoid it being so long, there is something of a... Massive, update after the chapter's over and done with. I'd suggest reading it, it'll let you guys know what's been going on the last six months. A past/present/future type deal, I tried to keep it concise, explanatory, and informative._

_Without further ado:_

_**We're off!**_

* * *

><p>Chapter 22<p>

* * *

><p><em><strong>"The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him."<strong>_

_**― G.K. Chestertton**_

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><p><em><strong>April 23rd , 2216<strong>_

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><p>This was it.<p>

Everything John S2-15 had learned in his seven years of Hell had led up to this very point, he stood in his Mk. V Orbital Insertion Vehicle, thinking about that single fact. For seven years, he had been trained in the art of war. His hands, his feet, his head, every single part of his body was trained to be perfect for battle. He had been drilled for combat for so long and so many times that fighting in and of itself was an instinctual act, and his body was augmented to be as perfect as genetics could make it, in preparation for the cybernetic augmentations to bring him to a stage of existence that was _beyond_ Human. His muscles were stronger, his bones nigh-indestructible, his health pristine, and his healing abilities accelerated. His biotics were stronger than ever.

In short, he was as ready as he could possibly be.

John closed his eyes as the drop pod locked in to position and was fired from the ship. As he was hurtling down towards the surface of an alien world with the intent to kill, he found himself in a serene state, thinking of - of all things - a coursing river. He could envision it perfectly, the water flowing freely and peacefully through the three bends that made an 'S' shape. There were pebbles at the riverbed, forming a solid ground as opposed to the shifting dirt of other rivers. He went to stand over the river, and saw his reflection in the water.

At first, there was no reflection, but when the water calmed, it showed John himself just as he was when he was younger, before he had joined the SIGMA II Program. He saw his rounded, child-like features, without a single hint of of the rugged, toned musculature he had now. His dark green eyes held none of the killing intent they had now, instead filled with an innocence he almost didn't recognize. Without warning, his younger visage vanished like runny, oil paint, now fast-forwarding to just a few days earlier, after he'd been augmented. His features were far practically adult now, he was much taller, more muscularly developed, and the innocence of his younger self had vanished, replaced now with a sharpness that took in all details available. Another flash forward, now he was in the Optimized Titan Armor, with the golden visor of the gas-mask/helmet.

The OIV shook violently as it soared into the cloud barrier. John opened his eyes. Their objective was simple, perfect for their first mission, perfect for 'new' SIGMAs. Planet Siler had been a very tough nut to crack, it seemed, it had provided far more resistance than had been expected. When combined with the napalm strikes, the nuclear bombardment, and the Batarian Hunters' presence, SIGMA Intervention was needed, and was subsequently authorized.

So all over the planet, as the Alliance Forces retreated to their bases to lick their wounds and count their dead, the Alliance's Augmented Elite were dropping in from orbit to unleash Augmented Death upon the Batarians. Six hundred six SIGMA II's equated to two hundred two squads, and while some squads – John's Alpha Squad included – had been paired up with a few others to assault higher-value targets, no more than five squads were placed together for one assault, allowing the Alliance to spread the SIGMA II's all over the planet, to strike at the heart of Siler's military resistance. If the planet was still able to put up an organized resistance by the end of the next Alliance Standard Day, the II's wouldn't have done their job right.

"Alpha Two-Fifteen to Delta One-One, Two-One, and Three-One." John said into his communicator, as the drop pods came within five kilometers from the ground.

_"Delta One-One, Tag Two-Six, responding."_

_"Delta Two-One, Tag Two-Thirty Two, responding."_

_"Delta Three-One, Tag Two-Twenty, Responding."_

"Pass out the orders to your squads. On landfall, make a stealth insertion at points A, B, C, and D. To reiterate, we're setting up a targeting beacon for an Alliance HOG Strike." John ordered, "secondary objectives include freeing any Prisoners of War and/or non-hostile slaves. Human and Quarian casualties are _not_ permitted." He stated firmly, with no room for argument; as the ground came ever closer, he made his final orders. "Once our objectives have been completed, we will move on to Rally Point Bravo and spearhead a joint N7/Force Recon assault on a hardened structure believed to house the majority of the planet's Hunters."

_"Understood."_ Came the responses of all three squad-leaders, before they relayed the orders to their squads.

John took the last few seconds he had before impact to survey the surroundings from this bird's eye view. The landing zone was in the middle of the forest, but several hundred meters to the north there was a clearing, and a long ways past that he could see the lights of a military base. The terrain was perfect for a stealth insertion, which was exactly what the SIGMA II's were going for.

John and the Alpha Squad hit the ground first, the OIV's rockets flared briefly to slow their descent to speeds that wouldn't dig their own graves, and moments after impact, they were followed by Delta Squads One, Two, and Three. The door to his OIV opened and John immediately sprung forth, his rifle hand, scanning the treelines. He saw nothing with the naked eye, and a quick flip through his HUD's various vision modes showed nothing else; regardless, he kept his guard up, rumors had spread through the Army about Siler's nasty animal population.

"We're clear, Two-Fifteen." Came Craig's voice, "checked thermals and motion trackers, only things here are us."

John nodded, "check your gear. We move in thirty seconds." He said, reaching into the OIV and grabbing what he couldn't have strapped on to him. The one and only downside to orbital drops that had never been fixed with time and technology was the damage that could be done to the equipment stored in the drop pods, it was very common for OD3's to carry spares of just about everything that could break - some went so far as to take empty magazines along in case they shattered inside the pod and spilled ammunition everywhere. Fortunately for John, the worst of the damage had gone to the drop pod's outer casing, nothing inside had been damaged outside of being shaken up. Extra ammunition went in his black tactical vest, smoke and fragmentation grenades were clipped to it before they were joined by two flares. These flares were designed to be seen both by passing aircraft, and radars on Alliance Ships, if he set one off, a cavalry the size of several hundred OD3's would come immediately to assist him and his squadmates, he hoped it wouldn't come to that, but he had to take all precautions. His only regret was that he'd been denied the ability to take one of the prototype explosives the carrier had been outfitted with - understandably so, it was incredibly risky to drop a SIGMA Operative from outer orbit with a grenade capable of exploding with a kiloton of force.

After donning everything he brought with him, John surveyed his surroundings, and saw George heft his massive machine gun onto his back. Said cannon was ill-purposed for stealth missions, and though he had brought a suppressed rifle like John and Craig, he had insisted on bringing the Machine Gun, just in case. Craig, on the other hand, was equipping himself with his Sniper Rifle; it was a marvel of modern military technology, it fired anti-material rounds just as loudly as a rat would squeak. Of course, its unsuppressed cousin was about as loud as a Wet Navy's Railgun, but still, the fact remained that the geniuses that ran R&D found a way to make the hand-held cannon as silent as a whisper.

"Ready." Said George.

"Ready." Said Craig.

"We move." Said John.

The SIGMA II's moved like a well oiled machine. Not a single movement of any part of their body was wasted, each one had their rifle raised and each one was committed to scanning their sector. John got the front right, George the front left, and Craig the rear. In spite of their seven foot frames and powered armor, they moved as silently as a snake, and though their optimized armor couldn't afford them a tactical cloak, they didn't need it, in the dead of night with only the moon to illuminate their surroundings, they may very well have been ghosts.

It took them fifteen minutes to get to the crest of the hill that was the clearing that lay beyond the forest of their landing zone. Here they crouched down low, they had a perfect view of the base in front of them. John could, thanks to his HUD, see his squad and the other squads' position in the Virtual Reality overlay, they all were faint blue outlines in the distance, and they all were in position.

The base itself was regulation by Batarian standards, at least until one really looked at it. John could tell immediately that everyone inside was paranoid, and their standard operating procedure had been largely thrown out the window in favor of 'we're at war shoot the first thing that moves'. There were spotlights running all around its perimeter, scanning the grass, looking for the shimmer of the cloaks the N7 and SIGMA I's used and the movement of the grass that was too artificial to be caused by the wind. Other spotlights scanned the skies, looking for the Alliance's Air and Space Force's stealth planes, or unmanned drones. The Batarians, while they had definitely won back some territory, and had defended more of it, were most definitely on the back foot.

"Craig, set up a Sniper's nest right here." John ordered, he received an acknowledgment from the SIGMA as he opened up comm-channels._ "Delta Squads, set up your marksman if you've got them. We move on my mark."_ More acknowledgments came as some of Humanity's next-generation Augmented Elite prepared for their first siege.

A deep breath flowed into John's lungs, and just as deep an exhale flowed outwards. "Three." He knew that this insertion would have to be_ perfect,_ they would have to traverse the three hundred meter distance in an absolute maximum of fifteen seconds, before they began climbing the walls. "Two." After scaling the walls they would have to execute the nearest threats, John would fire left, George right, just as they had drilled and practiced endlessly during their training on Sparta. "One..." One of the shortest, most powerful words in Alliance Standard English was just an instant from being uttered, the second John did so, lives would be saved and ended, by the barrel of his gun, and the twitch of his finger.

The lack of hesitation as he said the word 'go' was born from over seven years of constant military indoctrination and training drills.

John and George leapt to their feet and sprinted down the hill. John's bio-chemically augmented legs propelled him at great speeds, and the mechanical assistance stemming from the muscle suit underneath the plate-metal propelled him even faster. The two could feel the chest-high, poorly cut and maintained grass slapping against them as they ran, but they ignored it entirely, even if it had hurt, the feeling in and of itself was insignificant. They were as swift as a river and as fast as a clap of thunder, in eleven seconds they had traversed the three hundred meter silent kill-zone and were at the Batarian base's wall.

_"SSV Sol's Fury, this is SIGMA Two-Fifteen."_

_"Go ahead Two-Fifteen."_ Came the voice of the Admiral who captained the Alliance Flagship.

_"We are beginning insertion."_ Said John as he activated the Spider Gloves.

The differences between the SIGMAs and the N7, when compared to the OD3's, were far more than how they were deployed. OD3's were far more frequently used as an immediate reaction force for any battle, be it assault, or defense, as befitting of their Airborne roots. Despite the OD3's being considered Special Forces, their near constant use in Alliance Warfare had given them of a reputation of being 'Immediate Marines', an immediate reaction force. The OD3's were used for shock-and-awe, for large-scale enemy casualties and asset destruction, 'stealth' was very far from the commonly used words of any OD3. The N7 and the SIGMAs, on the other hand, were Special Forces on the same coin as the OD3, but a different side altogether. They were the stealth to the OD3's brutality, and though the SIGMAs could play any role required of them, they much preferred the quiet route, thus, their armor and equipment called for more specialized gadgetry and optimizations.

Spider Gloves were among said specialized gadgetry, they were designed for stealth-entries that the SIGMA Armor's Jump Packs were too overt for, and micro-explosives or laser cutters couldn't be used for. Essentially, they used billions of sharp, nanoscale metal fibers on the glove to grab the wall and cling to it. By utilizing the raw static friction of the threads and the wall, plus the magnetized hold the threads had on each other, the user was able to literally scale walls like a real-life Spiderman. The only downside to this was that the geometric shape and thus available surface area of armored combat boots couldn't equal enough constant tractive surface to reliably incorporate the same technology, and thus, the Spider Gloves entirely upon the operator's upper body strength to work. This wasn't an issue for SIGMA II's, whose augmented muscles gave them the required strength in spades, the upper-body strength wasn't a limiting factor.

_"Understood Two-Fifteen. Prepping HOG strike. Sol's Fury out."_ Said Admiral Griebun, before the connection was cut.

The wall was ten meters tall, and George and John scaled it in two minutes, moving slowly so as to avoid any unnecessary noise. _"Freeze!"_ Came the sudden orders from their marksman, _"two contacts, right above you."_ He advised, seeing them approach through his rifle's thermal sight.

John confirmed the hostile presence with his motion tracker, and heard the Batarians speak just a moment later. _"Gods damn those Humans..."_ One of them complained.

"Just come from the cell room?" Asked the second Batarian.

_"Yes!"_ Said the first, "one of them told me he'd tear my throat out if he ever got out of there... _Violent_ things, they are... And stupid, too." One said, "I mean, how does he expect to get out of there? We've disarmed him, does he expect to chew through the bars?"

"I heard their SIGMA Operatives have acidic saliva... They could do that." Two mentioned.

"Firstly, you're an idiot. They'd have to completely rework their DNA in order to do that, secondly -"

"_Craig, these guys aren't moving. You take Tweedledee -"_ John marked One on his HUD, "_I'll take Tweedledum."_ He marked Two, ever so slowly crawling up the wall as he did so.

_"On your mark."_ Craig said, activating his Line Of Sight marker, which appeared in John's HUD as a blue line, showing exactly where Craig was aiming.

John unhinged his right hand from the wall, and unsheathed his knife. In order to do this, he knew, he would need his biotics. He slipped into that mindset, and took two deep breaths before his body was wrapped in the dark, flaming aura.

_"Mark!"_ And on that word Craig's anti-material round few straight into the chest of Tweedle-Dee, soaring through it messily and burying itself into the concrete walkway.

Tweedle-Dum didn't have time to react, because John hurled himself up and over the wall. His biotics helped him briefly decrease his body's relative mass so that he could perform the feat much easier, and because of this, he was able to slam both of his armored feet onto the chest of the Batarian, who slammed into the ground with an audible 'hoof!'. John wasted no time, the second the Batarian hit the ground, John crouched down low and plunged his knife into the alien's throat with his right hand, and covered his ugly, yellow-skinned mouth with his left. In five seconds the Batarian was dead, his eyes went still, the imprint of fear and anger forever etched upon them.

_"Come up, Two-Sixty Six."_ John ordered, as he sheathed his knife and scanned the perimeter with his rifle.

George ambled up and over the wall and almost immediately had his rifle in hand. He joined John at the chest-high wall the II was using for cover, they had a perfect view of the courtyard. John peered over the wall and scanned the courtyard, his Squad specifically had been told to rescue Prisoners of War, the others were seeing to the Laser Targeters, leaving the Alphas free to conduct their mission.

The courtyard was filled with Batarian soldiers, a good portion of them were drunk and stumbling around, and others were patrolling the perimeter. There was a ring of buildings on the Base's west side that had a lot more guards, so John assumed it was either the base's CIC, or where they were hiding the POW's.

_"Two-Eighty Two, marking location on HUD. Need a thermal scan."_ John said, marking the building on his HUD.

_"On it, give me thirty seconds."_

John spent the thirty seconds looking over the rest of the base. The walkways that were on the wall were all empty, having been cleared by the other Delta Squads who were just now beginning to move to set up their targetters. John couldn't help but see something interesting in the center of the base, it looked like a gate of some kind. It was large, circular, and looked strikingly familiar to the child soldier, but he couldn't place it.

John snapped a few pictures with his helmet as Craig reported in. "_Two-Fifteen, I can see a few dozen heat signatures in the marked building. They're all huddled together and close to the ground. That's where the POW's are being stored."_

_"Got it, Two-Eighty Two. Two-Fifteen out."_ John clicked his communicator and nodded to George, signaling for him to move.

"John, what do you think that gate is?" George inquired softly, as they moved to the western side of the perimeter.

"Experimental tech most likely." John assumed, "if I had to guess... Maybe some kind of instant communications device that doesn't rely on Comm Buoys."

"What if it is what it looks like?"

"A Gate?"

"A troop transport device."

This gave John pause, as they stopped on the walkway just over the POW Camp. "Only TTD that'd fit that description would be..." He looked at the device again, alarmedly, before he keyed his communicator. "_Delta Three."_

"_Two-Twenty."_

_"We have a possible fix on enemy Warp Tech."_ John said, _"confidence is high, say again: Confidence is high. Can you set up a laser beacon on the marked position?"_ John marked the Gate on the team-map. _"We need to get it destroyed before they activate it."_ They all knew how big of a boom even the smallest warp-drives made, a quick estimate from John put that gate's explosive force at around ten megatons.

There was a pause as Two-Twenty weighed his options, _"I'll get it done."_ Two-Twenty didn't sound confident, but he said he'd get it done, so John believed him.

_"Understood. Stay alive. Out."_ He looked to George. "Stealth breech." He said, tapping his foot. "Roof, or door?"

"Door."

"Get ready." John said.

He lowered himself onto the concrete roof, and crouch-walked as quickly but silently as he could to the edge. John activated the combination night vision, infrared, and thermal vision mode on his helmet with a gesture-sensitive nodding motion. There were three guards at the door, and two more on both sides of the building. John marked two targets for George, two for him, and one for Craig. With a few twitches of his fingers, he set up the countdown timer, and lifted his rifle. He needed to hit them directly on the cluster of nerves near the back of their skull, the lower left portion, that was where their speech centers were located primarily, if John hit that, they'd die silently.

_"Three."_ John's finger rested on the trigger

_"Two."_ he got green flag from both Craig and George, both were ready.

_"One."_ John inhaled deeply, and exhaled.

_"Go!"_ He pulled the trigger, a three round burst tore through the first Batarian's helmet and into its brains. John wasted no time, and the Batarian's buddy didn't utter so much as utter an alarmed 'what?' before its head too was turned to hamburger meat.

_"Targets down."_ Said George.

_"Clear."_ Craig advised them.

_"Hide the bodies."_ John ordered George.

The two dropped down from the roof, making an almost inaudible thumping noise, and immediately got to work hiding the bodies. Much of the courtyard was cast in the golden-orange lights of the Batarian base as it tried in vain to fight the surrounding darkness, but behind the POW Building there was a pitch-black void of detailless dark, which John and George had all the bodies moved to in twenty eight seconds.

John and George stacked up on the entrance to the POW Building. John counted to three quickly, and opened the door slowly. George grabbed a tight hold of John's armor, ready to yank him back on a moment's notice, both completely aware that they had to move fast, because one stray look and they'd be made instantly. John did a quick HUD scan of the inside and had George pull him back. One hand sign was all it took to confirm the safety inside, so the two snuck inside the building, rifles raised.

The dull gray glow that was cast upon the room from inside John's helmet, brought everything in the truly pitch-black, windowless building into painfully clear detail. He could see twenty eight poor souls in the room, and from first glance, only five had the correct anatomical details to be called Human or Quarian. John knew he could definitely get away with only extracting the Alliance-men and he would not be questioned, but he also knew that the Alliance had promised the galaxy that they would rescue all slaves within their power, and he was a SIGMA, it was in his power.

So John made the decision, put his rifle on his back, drew his suppressed pistol, and activated his HardLight blade, which cut through the darkness with a radiating white glow. George was a moment from questioning him when John slagged one of the cells' locks. Slowly the figures within began rousing, many shielded their eyes from John's bright white blade. When he opened the third cell, everyone in the cramped building was awake. The Humans in the room – at least, those who still retained their sanity – immediately bade everyone else quiet, and though all of the aliens' instincts told them to shout with glee, they did as they were told. John and George broke the locks on all five cells, and all the Slaves were corralled in the middle cell, with John and George against the concrete wall.

_"Well... Who are you?"_ A Turian slave asked.

_"I told you about them, Jun. They're SIGMA, you can't get better than them!"_ A Quarian informed the Turian.

_"Shh!"_ John shushed, before he slammed his Hard-Light blade into the wall. It sank about six inches into the concrete, he made a cut large enough to accommodate someone of the size of a Krogan, but wasn't able to saw through the entire wall's thickness. "Two-Sixty Six." John indicated the bright red ring he'd cut in the rock.

George got the idea and huffed twice, before he slammed his shoulder into the rock as hard, but also as quietly as he could. His bio-chemical augmentations and his armor worked wonders for him, and on his second tackle, the wall was now sporting an eight foot tall circular hole, George almost missed his opportunity to catch the slab he'd made, but was able to do so, and therefore, set it on the ground quietly.

_"Two Fifteen!"_ It was Delta Three's voice. _"You need to evacuate!"_

John held his hand up to freeze the soon-to-be former slaves, and bade George to go to the back of the group, closest to the door, just in case.

_"Sitrep."_

_"Suspicions confirmed, the enemy is in possession of Warp Tech and is in the process of activating it!"_

_"How soon until it is functional? Can we drop the Rods from God?"_

_"Negative, they're turning it on _right now!." While hushed, the SIGMA was clearly hurried.

_"We need to extract, get the VIP's off-world before we can drop the Rods."_ John surmised.

_"Delta One, here, objective complete."_

_"Delta Two, same."_

_"Alpha Two-Fifteen, what are your orders?"_ Despite the fact that no SIGMA II yet held any true rank aside from 'squad leader', the Alphas were universally looked up to, so it fell to John to make the decision.

If they left the base and dropped the Rods from God, as planned, the Batarian Warp Tech would detonate, and would create a minimum-ten megaton explosion. If they extracted to LZ Alpha, they could get the slaves off-world and then drop the Rods, but that had a 50/50 chance of succeeding, their Warp Gate could easily be missed or buried instead of being blown to atoms. They could also move to LZ Bravo, which was twice the distance away, but could give them more time to successfully extract and let the satellite have more time to aim.

John shook his head, they needed an immediate extraction, they couldn't risk the Slaves dying of exposure to the harsh Siler cold. "All Squads, extract to Rally Point Bravo -" He knew Craig wouldn't have to move, _he_ was RP Bravo "- upon regroup we move to Landing Zone Alpha and call for extraction, mission parameters have changed." He got the acknowledgments he needed, and cut the radio.

"John, how do we plan on getting out of here?" George asked from his position behind the group, he indicated the solid stone wall behind John, that formed the outer perimeter of the military base. "I can't cut through -" He was cut short, John heard it first and was already moving.

Craig warned them just a fraction of a second after John started shoving his way through the slaves and George whirled around, the slaves parted to make way for him, obviously wary that something was happening.

_"Dahkens I don't care how pretty the Asari is, you can't make your men abandon their post for -"_ The Batarian who entered the POW Building froze when he saw the hole in the wall, the broken cells, and the SIGMA II rushing for him.

By some extreme stroke of luck, the Batarian slammed the door on John just before the child soldier reached him. John slammed through the wooden door, and managed to tackle the Batarian to the ground, but the damage was done. The Batarian's rifle went off, due to the distance - or lack thereof - between the rifle and John's armor, the three rounds bypassed his shields entirely and soared straight for his gut, before slamming into the armor plating and shattering the already miniscule rounds into even smaller pieces, the kinetic transfer leaving John winded, his armor scratched.

The air was silent for all of two seconds, before base-wide alarms started going off.

_"We've been made!"_ John proclaimed, retreating back inside the POW Building.

_"Sniper Support ready."_ Came Craig, as he and the repositioned SIGMA II's began unleashing long-ranged death upon the Batarians.

_"Weapon's free!"_ John ordered, as George barreled through the small building to get to him.

"What do we do?" George roared over the increasingly loud sounds of gunfire.

"Do we have any C-Seven?"

"Negative!"

_"Two-Fifteen, I'm calling the OD -"_ Came the voice of one of the Delta Squad-leaders.

_"Negative!"_ John interrupted him, looking outside and seeing the Warp Gate begin whirring to life. "Objectives changed, we need to take this base!"

_"John, we're only twelve men."_ Craig informed him, over the whispers of his sniper rifle.

_"Twelve SIGMAs!"_ John reiterated, as the Gate's center ring began gathering a small blue-white orb of energy. _"Two Six, HUD says you've a laser targeter still in your possession!"_

_"Affirmative Two-Fifteen."_ Said S2-6.

_"Alright, we're going to walk these people out of here, get to the extraction zone and make sure they get out."_

_"How do we plan to do this?"_

_"Who remembers history class?"_

* * *

><p>General Tsal Daa was fuming angry, he was literally growling at his situation. He had come here under the impression that this base was safe, secure, and most importantly, <em>hidden.<em> The skies were constantly scanned for drones and satellites, the base was swept for bugs every twelve standard hours, and the guards had implants that would kill them instantly if they spoke of the base's location to anyone but those with proper clearance.

He had been told that the secret to Human travel technology had been cracked and was ready for large-scale troop transport from the Mercenary Base. Where he had been expecting the key to winning the war against Humanity, and by proxy securing Batarian dominance in the galaxy, let alone the Council, he had instead gotten a surprise assault from the Alliance's beyond special forces, the accursed, gods-damned, infuriating, _demonic,_ SIGMA Operatives.

"I want that gate open _NOW!"_ He roared to an enslaved-Salarian, who was hurriedly typing away at the terminal to the left of the Gate.

"I am working as fast as I can, master!" The Salarian shouted over the gunfire, before he ducked his head at the sound of a sniper round slamming to his right. The fearful Salarian worked twice as hard, not just fearing for his life if he failed, but fearing for his existence if the Humans won. He had heard of them from the Masters, they were brutes who killed everyone in their wake, worse than the angriest Krogan.

This Warp Gate, as the Masters had told him to call it, was simple in its design. It incorporated a vast amount of the scavenged technology from the Human vessels, that was deemed too worthless to be used in the Pratr Ships. The Salarian knew little of where the Exit Point was, but he had heard rumors that the Batarians had hired a paramilitary corporation to come and bolster their numbers. Rumor had it that the PMC's were one of the few corporations that existed outside of Human territory, that solely relied upon Human technology. Bullets, Human Armor and Kinetic/Energy barriers, some rumors even floated about that their ships used Rail Guns. The mercenaries – Spartecs, they called themselves – had told the Hegemony that they would fight for free, in exchange for all of their secrets on Human Travel technology.

Of course, the High Chancellor had responded positively, anything that could be used to defeat the Humans was something he wanted. But, the unfortunate part was, they were only sending in five of the Spartecs in, as their test. What good would five mercenaries do?

The Salarian shook his head, but widened his eyes in awe as the Warp Gate activated, successfully. The pale, void of detail hole in space/time expanded to the edges of the gate and halted. There was no sound, outside of the gunshots, as it produced no sound, no wavering energy, no heat, it seemed unnatural. How had the Humans made this machine, which seemed an affront to the natural order of space travel? The 'cosmic speed limit' was meant to be transcended and broken, not _ignored_.

What was worse, was what came out of it.

He did not honestly know what he had expected, but this wasn't it. There were five Turians, but they did not wear armor, rather, the exact opposite. They wore baggy clothing, which looked quite thick, and made of some odd material that he couldn't identify. Their shirts had hoods – a feature the Salarian had never seen on Turian clothing – and they all wore baggy masks that concealed their faces. If it had not been for the body structure of the Turians, the Salarian honestly would not have recognized them, for even their eyes and their mandibles all were covered, though he thought he could see the dim light of the uniquely Turian Heads Up Display devices, Humans called them 'Monocle HUDs'.

The General noticed this too, for he took one look at the Turians and demanded to know what they were wearing.

The Spartec simply said, "Benzahn." Before he moved to what was important, "what is the situation?" His squad-mates had already raised their rifles and fanned out, surrounding their squad leader, the Warp Gate, and the General.

* * *

><p><em>"Two Fifteen, are you serious right now?!"<em> Demanded 2-32.

"It will work!"

_"It puts each and every single one of us at risk!"_ The Squad Leader argued.

"It will work!"

_"It's a damn Phalanx, John! That stuff would get you killed in any war after 1803!"_ 2-32 argued, even as 2-6 moved to set up the laser targeter.

_"But people after 1803 didn't have Titan Armor and HardLight Shields! It will work! We can walk them out of here!"_ John protested, before he broke cover to send a few rounds downrange. Whatever the Batarians were doing with the Warp Gate, it had worked, they had gotten reinforcements, but why so few, John didn't know.

_"When they start lobbing grenades and bringing out the Heavy MACs, the kinetic energy alone will shatter our bones!"_

_"That's why we got them augmented!"_ John stated, _"I know it will work! Two-Six, Two-Twenty and Two-Eighty Two are already moving to position, and without you we can't make it work!"_ He said, as George ripped off the heavy machine gun from his back and began laying down suppressive fire.

He heard the shout of anger from Two-Thirty Two's mic, _"if we die in this, I'm going to wring your neck!"_

John grinned, _"Two-Six, sitrep."_

_"We've set the target designator and have regrouped at your designated RV Point, awaiting instructions."_

_"Hammer Down."_

John's plan was simple, but guerrilla. He had drawn inspiration from the Romans and the Greeks, who conducted Warfare with the Phalanx formation. The long and short of it was the knights would line up in a tight, rank-and-file formation and lock their shields together, forming a nigh-impenetrable ring around them to block enemy soldiers, so the Romans could come in with spears and end them. When faced with arrows, the Romans would simply raise their shields to the sky. John had just successfully argued that if they could do that then, why not do it now? Countless risks were posed by even trying to attempt this, given no practice at all in the maneuver, but technology solved nearly all of the risks. Where the Batarians could attempt to overwhelm them with gunfire, the SIGMAs would hold firm with their HardLight shields, where they would attempt air-strikes and mortar bombardments, the Humans still had their barriers; and, with the gaps in between their shields, the SIGMAs could aim their weapons and fire, essentially forming a modern-day phalanx. John knew, of course, that there were finer details of the 'true' Phalanx that he'd missed, but it was his best comparison and he knew it would work, it had to, otherwise they would have to call down an orbital strike that would result in a ten megaton detonation killing them all.

_"Light- HOG Round incoming."_ Far above the battlefield, a Human Weaponized Satellite, known as the 'Hand of God', unleashed its payload. Whereas, before, they were going to use larger tungsten 'Rods from God', to facilitate more destruction, the SIGMAs had called in a smaller, more precise strike, therefore limiting the possibility of damaging the active Batarian Warp Gate.

In three seconds, the Rod slammed into the ground behind the prison. The ground shook with the force of the explosion, and John immediately sprung into action.

_"George! Suppressive fire for five seconds!"_

_"Five Seconds, move!"_ The Big Man responded, before his Machine Gun bucked and barked as it spat hot death all across the stunned battlefield.

John moved back to the cowering crowd, silently praying his strategy would work as well as he thought it would. "Okay, everyone up!" He said, clamping his rifle to his back and withdrawing a pistol. "You all need to stay together, keep your hands on each others shoulders!"

"What are we doing, sir?!" A Human called out, as everyone got to their feet.

"We're walking out of here!" John said, as George's MG stopped firing and he came to head up the rear of the pack.

John activated the bright blue HardLight shield. He held it aloft with his left hand and held his pistol with his right hand. George did the same, but he held his Assault Rifle in his left hand, intending to see if he was, indeed, strong enough to fire it one-handed. John ordered the forward-march as the Batarians started getting curious and they advanced on the prison. The back-entrance they had carved earlier was now clouded in smoke, had it not been for John switching to T/NV/IR Vision, he wouldn't have been able to see one inch in front of his face. He felt a hand on his shoulder and whipped around, nearly pistol-whipping an Asari slave who was leading the pack.

"I -" She had a look of panic on her face, but John nodded.

"Good." John said clippedly, before turning back around, he understood why the woman did it, but her hesitant delay in doing so nearly got her killed.

They made it just past the outer wall before the bullets started flying. John sensed the Civilian's desire to shriek, separate, and run, but his fellow II's came in at just the right moment, descending the hill and providing suppressing fire. Several Batarians died as they set themselves up.

_"Phalanx, ten seconds!"_

"Sir, I'm hit!"

John turned around and saw the Asari from before holding her side, in pain. He silently withdrew a vial of Cell Fluid. "It's temporary, but it'll keep you on your feet." He stated after he jammed it into the area just above the wound, with a nod, as the bright blue shields interlocked both around their perimeter and above them. It wasn't necessarily designed for use with aliens, but that was what its adaptive programming was for - it was kept in something of a 'neutral' state until it felt contact with biological material; it scanned the body it was invading, detected the wounds, and chose the best course for healing, while keeping the body as alive and healthy as possible.

It was a tight fit, with the Civilians in the middle and the twelve SIGMAs surrounding them. Nine of the SIGMAs were used to erect the Shield Wall, and this showed, as there were several gaps in their defense that could be pierced by a skilled sniper, or a lucky Guided Missile. John shook his head and exhaled through his nose, before he made the order to move.

"In formation!" He ordered, keeping his shield aloft, "move!" And with that, the SIGMAs began moving.

The Civilians took it hard, it was difficult for them to keep up with the SIGMAs, who were moving at what their muscle-memory dictated as a light step, but to the Civilians was little less than a frantic jog.

From the base came the relentless assault of the Batarian military, every weapon they had was being brought to bear and a wall of ammunition was rushing forward at hundreds of thousands of meters every second to meet their wall of immovable physical light. A few lucky rounds made it through the gaps in their impromptu shield wall, but none of those rounds hit the cowering civilians, who moved low and fast as they kept up with the SIGMAs constant movements.

George said it succinctly, putting everyone's thoughts to word. _"Jesus Christ, John, it's working!"_

* * *

><p><em>"Spartec- 6-3 are you in position?"<em>

They had sprinted for the entire five minutes since the Human Orbital Strike, to make this position, it was perfect for an ambush, and in the trees they had a perfect sniping vantage point.

_"Affirmative."_

This move by the Hegemony had come as a blindside to them and their brethren, but it served as a perfect opportunity to get what their sponsors needed. No amount of technology stolen from the Human Rebels had amounted to anything entirely useful, Benzahn not included. The Batarians had – in some stroke of brilliance no-doubt afforded to them by their gods – somehow reverse engineered Human travel technology, and had rebuilt it using materials and devices available to the Citadel Council. Should this be brought into the right hands, say, of the Turian Hierarchy, the inevitable Alliance-Council war would be far less one-sided.

This was why the Spartecs were here, barring their own deaths, they had to get the Batarian Warp Technology. They had a lot of breathing room on this mission, the Hierarchy had 'hired' them and subsequently afforded them every available asset just short of a full-scale incursion on Siler, and the Hegemony had all but promised them they would give them anything and everything they needed, just so long as they helped them _win._ This meant that the Spartecs had to get the technology, and in order to do that, they had to eat their morals.

In all honesty, no one in Citadel-Space – or, at least, a vast majority – appreciated the Batarians and supported their slaving attempts. The Alliance was receiving almost routine support for their efforts here, but the simple fact was the Spartecs' cover was that of a mercenary squadron, and in order to keep it, they had to prevent the escape of dozens of slaves. It made 6-1 wonder just _who_ had the moral high-ground here, the Humans, or the Turians? The Humans were wronged, and were righting that wrong, but before then, the Turians had been wronged, and by preventing Human success here, they were one step closer to righting _their_ own wrongs.

Right?

_"I have a visual."_ The four words removed all of the treasonous thoughts from Spartec 6-1's mind faster than the round of a Council Dreadnought would.

_"What do you see?"_

_"Synching HUD."_

6-1 saw in his monocle-HUD the feed from 6-3's Sniper Rifle. He saw the bright blue 'dome' the Humans had made with their shielding technology. There were several holes, and upon ordering 6-3 to switch to Thermal, he saw the opening he needed.

_"Load ESP Rounds, fire on the marked target. Shoot to kill."_ ESP, or Energy Shield Piercing, rounds were a frighteningly new invention for the Turian War Machine. They worked by shaving off large sections of the ammo block and rocketing them off at breakneck speeds, only to have their relative mass increased exponentially just before impact, causing their kinetic energy to skyrocket, and in effect, creating a one-hit kill for Human Energy Shields, with enough of the Heat Sink cool enough to fire off an armor piercing shot.

_"Target Acquired."_ A pause, "_firing."_ The effect was immediate, the SIGMA Human's shields burst like glass, but 6-1 was amazed at his allies' reactions. Instead of halting their odd little formation, or rushing to protect him and making more openings, they shifted positions with such fluidity and grace that he wondered if they had seen it coming and had rehearsed the act beforehand. Literally the entire shield wall began rotating around the mass of slaves in their center, and 6-1 saw another opening, through 6-3's scope, at the same time the Human Marksman who had intentionally placed himself in a newly opened gap fired thrice, turning 6-3 and his rifle into a bloody mess.

_"6-2 -"_

_"Suppressing."_

_"6-4, 6-5, with me."_ 6-1 got to his feet and ran with his allies. These Humans were different, more befitting of their reputation than their OD3's had been, so simply picking them off wouldn't work, not fast enough. So 6-1 decided on an impulse that they would fight by attrition, they would separate some facets of the shield wall and take them out, slowly whittling down the Human defenses. This put the Spartecs at risk, but he was confident in their ability.

The Spartecs hurtled across the grounds, their feet carrying them across the dirt as fast as was possible for a Turian of so much experience. It took them two minutes to cross the distance, and in that two minutes the SIGMAs had moved several meters. This move on the SIGMAs' end had obviously been in anticipation of a melee brawl coming from the Spartecs, and 6-1 gave them a little credit, they were good.

But when the Spartec threw all of his body-weight at an opening in between the shields, and tackled one of the SIGMAs away from his allies, he knew that they and their tactics were better.

* * *

><p>John-S2-15 needed only an instant to recover when he and the Mercenary hit the ground and started tumbling. He deactivated his HardLight shield and dug his armored hand into the ground, slowing his slide down the steep hill as the Turian did the same using his talons. John got to his feet first and he raised his rifle, the Turian raised his own and the two strafed each other, firing wildly while doing so. John felt his shields shatter and a few rounds tear past his arm, his leg, and into his abdomen, but the Smart Skin immediately began growing into the wound and sealing it from the outside world. John's rifle clicked on empty just as the Turian's rifle overheated and began venting, the two moved in perfect synchronization, with John clamping his rifle to his back and the Turian tossing his rifle away.<p>

John's knife flew into his hand through use of his Biotics. Immediately the Turian shifted combat stances, but John knew what to do with this, he needed to grab the Turian, they were the same size, if he could do that, he would win. But the Turian looked prepared for any assault, so John – thinking as impulsively as Humans characteristically did – simply leapt at the Turian with the full power of his augmented and assisted muscles. John's gamble paid off, and the Turian took one instant too many to realize what the SIGMA II was doing. John slammed the Turian into the ground and threw his knife repeatedly into the Turian's chest, the right side, as his left arm locked the Turian's arm to his. The Turian was wearing some sort of cloth-like armor, that reminded John of Kevlar, that hardened just before impact, but an appropriate application of mass-increasing biotics to John's knife pierced the bastardized kevlar shirt like a hot knife would cut through butter, and John felt his knife sink into the Turian's heart.

The Turian, however, would not go down easy. Using whatever limited time it knew it had left, the Turian actually dislocated its arm in an attempt to wrench it from John's grip. But the master of Vi-Contactus had trained for situations exactly like the one the Turian was attempting to create, and in response, John tightened the lock on the Turian's arm and kneed the knife. The knife was ripped out of the Turian's chest just as John's biotically increased right palm slammed into its neck, snapping it like a twig.

John took no time to marvel at his handiwork – though he did put significant effort into tearing off a section of the alien Kevlar so he could send it to Alliance Intelligence – he grabbed his knife and sheathed it as he leapt to his feet. John reached the crest of the hill to find his fellow II's reaching the forest to his left, to his right, rapidly approaching, were the Batarian forces, and directly in front of him, were the Turian mercenaries, similarly garbed in Alien Kevlar.

John felt a sniper round bounce off of his shields and immediately leapt to the ground. His rifle was in his hands and after he reloaded he took down one of the Turians, the other didn't even allow himself to be distracted before he too crouched down behind whatever cover he could manage.

_"Two-Fifteen!"_ He heard George call out.

_"Two-Eighty Six, you're at the forest. I want everyone to stack up, that's our line and no one crosses it!"_ John ordered into the microphone, as he dodged another shot from the elusive sniper. "_Two-Eighty Six, I want you to round up the civilians and get them to evac!"_

_"But I can't leave -"_

_"George, when you get to the hangar bay, you will realize exactly why I told you to evac! Now GO!"_ John ordered his friend, as he suppressed the brave Turian, who tried to score a shot off of him. "_The rest of you, hold the line! Once the civilians are off world, advance!"_ He ordered, "snipers, set up in the trees! Be aware of a Turian Sniper in an unknown northerly position." John marked the Sniper's general position in their shared Heads Up Displays.

John received several acknowledgments, and the battle continued.

For the first five minutes, though it may have been longer or shorter, given the distortion effect that was caused by his cerebral enhancements and the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the fight was largely stacked against the II's. They had a line they couldn't let the enemy cross, they had eleven men, and they were largely immobile - retreating meant putting the civilians yet-to-be-evacuated at risk, whereas the enemy had numbers far greater than one hundred, twice as many weapons, and had no desire to hold the line - much the opposite, they wanted to press and break the line as hard as they could. In short, the II's found themselves on the bad end of every possible advantage, save for two - they had their armor, optimized as it may be, and they had their training. It wasn't an opinion, it was fact - Alliance technology was more advanced than Citadel tech, certainly Citadel tech had its own advantages, but on the whole, the Humans had invented nearly everything the Council had stolen from their alien predecessors, far better than they had copied it. This led to the SIGMA II's spreading their numbers dangerously thin along their line and utilizing any and all advantages they could create, first came the smoke grenades, then the sniper fire, and the indirect support from the various heavy-weapons specialists, and the biotic artillery of the three biotics John had found himself with, he himself included.

After that first five minutes, the advancing Batarians had been halted entirely, and though John had taken a few rounds for his troubles, he ignored the pain and continued fighting. It would be after ten minutes that the II's, beaten and bruised though they may have been, went on the offensive, as George called in the all-clear: The Civilians were getting off-world, the II's had nothing holding them back. It went slow, at first, their progress hampered more by the distant Turian mercenaries than by the Batarian soldiers, but after John threw a miniature drone into the air and located them, their marksmen took them down with little delay, and with their wild card gone, the Batarians soon fell on the defensive, retreating as the SIGMA II trainees slowly pressed their advantage.

The II's weren't without their own injuries, but their pain tolerance had been built through almost a decade of training to destroy and defeat the SIGMA I's, whereas the Batarian's paltry excuse for training and experience came from badgering slaves and civilians on their various colonies. Where the II's took injuries, the Batarians took casualties.

It was only now, after such a long firefight, that John felt his heart rate begin to truly climb as high as it had been on Mindoir. He knew his life was in danger - perhaps more danger than it had ever been before, bar none - and the thought excited him. He was finally able to prove that seven years searching for vengeance and purpose hadn't been a waste - his merciless, ruthless slaughter of the Batarians proved that he hadn't been in vain, that it had been all worthwhile.

_If there is an afterlife, I wonder what she thinks of me._ John considered, as his rifle barked and bucked against his shoulder. His mother had been the original reason he'd even wanted to fight, the second - arguably current - reason being the Quarian from Mindoir. One would assume these thoughts would spark a moral battle of such white-hot intensity that the largest, brightest star in the universe couldn't outshine it, but his train of thought had begun and ended with those few words flitting through his mind, he had more important things to worry about - such as the sudden appearance of a blindingly bright orange fireball hurtling towards the ground far beyond terminal velocity.

George must have found the jet John had hoped he would. None of the II's had any vehicular training yet, so George had either commandeered an AI or forced an A/SF pilot to fly it, but the means didn't at all matter for the end-result: The SIGMAs had air support now, and the Batarian's didn't.

There was only one thing left for John to do, an end-all, last-resort contingency plan. He hated going against Ducard like this, but he would face the music when the time came - he needed it just in case he had to do what he feared he might. The Batarians were stupid, and they were playing with toys they didn't even remotely comprehend, if he couldn't turn off the Warp Gate, he'd have to go through and destroy it, and lacking any C7 explosives, he had to call in the next best thing.

_"SSV Sol's Fury, this is Alpha Two-Fifteen, I need package Kilo Oscar delivered to nav-beacon Alpha ASAP!"_ He called out as the II's moved forward, with the help of the jets above and the guns below.

_"Understood, Alpha Two-Fifteen, package on the way."_ The Fury's Captain responded, before he decided not to mention how he'd have to let Ducard know what John just did - they both were well aware that Ducard would have to be notified of John's skirting around command.

With his contingencies set and his bases covered, John joined his brothers' assault in full, pushing the Batarians back as they hurtled forward, relentlessly pummeling the aliens as the child soldiers did exactly what they were raised for, and fought.

* * *

><p><em>AN:_

_Hey folks!_

_9,500 (or near enough) words of almost non-stop action with a bit of plot advancement sprinkled throughout.  
>I think that's a good way to break a hiatus, no?<em>

_So, I bet you're wondering just where the hell I've been for six **months...** Well, I've been doing a lot. _

_I'll give you the condensed version here, but if you check out the 5/29/15 update on my Profile, you'll get the full story - and I do mean **full,** though there will be information in here that wasn't covered, or even available, back then._

_Simply put, I spent the time stockpiling chapters, searching, hunting, and (once or twice) **begging** for a job, and keeping my grades up to graduate highschool. _

_Well, suffice to say, all three of those objectives have been accomplished. I've got my driver's license, I've graduated highschool (let me say that again - **I graduated highschool!)**, I've got a job, and I've got chapters saved up for all of my in-progress stories.  
>Well, kind of - I've still got to get to work <strong>really<strong> stockpiling the THW chapters, but I've got a gameplan and something of an outline to work with, so that process should run by smoothly. _

_Right now, on my Google Docs, I've got chapters up to 39 of this story drafted, and up to 31 edited and ready to go. _

**_One a_**_** week (**the new update schedule), every week, means seventeen weeks straight of updates, at least. That's four months and change of weekly content.  
><em>_I came with my guns loaded, folks. _

_Now, you might be wondering, why - other than to more closely reflect my height in TFW - would I switch to a weekly update schedule?_

_Well, buckle in, folks. I'll try to keep it short, because I think you've heard this little bit a dozen times now:_

_I've gotten many reviews saying that this story, while good, doesn't quite match up to TFW in terms of quality. And while the fact that it is much greater in scale **should** be mentioned, I do actually agree. As it stands right now, I think you're all getting jipped on the quality side of things. I think I'm unintentionally misleading you all as to what this story is._

_The way it reads right now, the title, 'The Saltorian War' suggests a story about an(other) unknown race making an explosive entrance onto the galactic scale, and waging a never-ending war against two military juggernauts.  
>While that's not entirely <strong>wrong,<strong> it's not all that right, either. No spoilers, but right now the cover isn't properly reflecting the book._

_So, how do I solve this?_

_Well, simple: I rebrand it.  
>Not a re<strong>boot,<strong> but a rebranding. I change the name, to better reflect the story itself. Yeah, 'The **Saltorian** War' __has a good ring to it, and it fits with the three-word-title thing I started with TFW, but it doesn't reflect the story itself. _  
><em>To not re-iterate what this is for the thousandth time, I'll just go ahead and tell you guys that, effective next update, the story's title will change from TSW to a slightly more grandiose, but more reflective (and, importantly, <strong>subtle<strong>) title: _

_Mass Effect: The New Face of War_

_A bit long, yeah, but I like it. It suggests a lot, and helps identify itself with the WarVerse I started with TFW. _

_This rebranding, coupled with the weekly release schedule, should hopefully help you all see the method to my madness a lot faster than it would have been earlier. _

_I ask all of you that have kept up to keep keeping up, because this story is **big** and it's **important - **might be the _**most**_ important in the WarVerse series as a whole, and I ask those who are dubious to stick with me, because there is a method to my madness, but I like to play the long game. Sometimes things won't make sense right away, but I like it when there's suspense and hype built up, and then there's big pay-off at the end, and when you go back, you realize how much you missed thanks to this **one** reveal. _

_To give you all a hint as to what I mean, this entire story - and even in the remastered chapters of TFW - I've slowly and subtly been building up a tension between the Alliance and the United Nations [Earth's governing body], and the Alliance and Sparta - the home base of the SIGMA Program. This is all meant to build up and boil over in the third (and final) in the 'Prequel War' trilogy, as I've taken to calling it, which itself will lead directly into the Reaper saga.  
>What's this story called?<br>... Eh... Telling the title would spoil it, but I need to make the point anyways, it's called 'The Civil War'.  
>Armed with that, I challenge you all to go back and search for the hints and subtleties I've sprinkled throughout the series thus far, that may lead up to that, and then ask yourself - what <strong>ELSE <strong>is hiding, right there, in front of your eyes?  
>Folks, you would be fucking amazed. ;)<em>

_So, that covers the past and the present, with a few hints to the future.  
>But, you may be asking yourself, what about <strong>me<strong> specifically? What about your friendly-neighborhood Professor of Gaseous Hamburger Meat? I mean, I've graduated, I'm street-legal, and I'm employed. What's next?_

_Well... It's not that glamorous. Right now I'm working thirty hours a week, minimum wage, at a (not so) local Subway. It's not **bad** money, but it's money, and I need such things.  
>I've no plans for college yet, but I do plan on educating myself - I've been speaking with my contact in my (definitely not) local fire department, and because I've been interning there for four years now, I'm being afforded the opportunity to go through EMT - Emergency Medical Technician - classes for <strong>free.<strong>  
>That's a <strong>loooot<strong> of money I don't have to spend for a very marketable skill, folks. I take that class and pass, and then join the fire department, that's $40K a year working one day on, and two off.  
>Again, not <strong>bad<strong> money, but it's money, it's a damn good bit better than minimum wage, and, rationed correctly, would be enough to live off of. _

_But, I bet you're thinking something along the lines of, 'well, that's fine and dandy, but I follow you to read your stuff! What'll you be doing with THAT?!'  
>Well, I'll give you the short version - as I addressed this in the 529/15 update too. _

_Simple put, folks, the success of... Well, all of my Fanfiction exploits (both on this profile and on an other), has given me a **massive** confidence boost, and has inspired me to make a significant investment in my craft. I truly think that this may take me somewhere, some day._

_I mean, just think of it this way - at the time of this writing, if TFW were an actual book, each copy sold for two dollars, and the views for the first chapter counted as one copy sold, that would be just a little shy of $280 **thousand** dollars.  
>If this story sold under the same conditions, that'd be another $115 <strong>thousand, <strong>if the same thing went for THW, that'd be a little over $76 **thousand;** HtC? Another $42 **thousand**.  
>That's over half of a <strong>million<strong> dollars; and would be just under it after taxes.  
>That's a <strong>lot<strong> of money, and while it wouldn't be indefinite, that would be enough to live off of, if I was smart, kept my job, and didn't burn it all impulsively.  
>This realization was mind boggling for me.<em>

_So, my plan is to start branching out. I'll keep focus on the WarVerse series and THW, over here on FFN, but I can't make money off of Fanfiction. I could try some kind of crowd-funding type deal, like Patreon or GoFundMe, but I'll explain my (extremely tentative) plans for that in a second.  
>So, while I keep working on the TW-Verse and THW, I plan to branch out to other creative writing websites, to host an OC trilogy I call 'Terra's Sol'. When I say OC, I mean it - this would be your first peak into my <strong>Original<strong> Canon, that which I took from (and admittedly ripped apart and generalized) to make The WarVerse; I like to think of it like this - the WarVerse, on the scale of originality, weighs in somewhere around 4.5; My UNiverse weighs in around 8.5 or even a solid 9, and it's had just as much - if not, much much more - effort put into it as the TW-Verse. _

_So I plan to publish, piece by piece, chapter by chapter, Terra's Sol. I don't know what website yet - I've got my eyes set on DeviantArt, but I've got a few other websites I'm thinking of - but it will be somewhere central to my Original Canon; a hub, if you will. At the completion of each part of the trilogy, I'll go through it with a fine-toothed comb, update the hell out of every little bit and piece of detail, and then package the whole deal and throw it onto the Amazon Kindle-store for the low-low-price of Nada. (Why charge for something on the Kindle Store, that someone could go onto DA to get for free? I need money, but I'm not that dickish.)_

_Doing that, I get to introduce people to my own universe and canon, I get to generate some interest and credit for myself as an original author, and I get my name out there for critiques and reviews from a much, much wider audience. And hopefully, this interest would be able to allow me to attempt to create something of a supplemental income from my writing, through such crowd-funding avenues such as Patreon, GoFundMe, or Kickstarter, things of that nature.  
>Now, as to those kinds of things, I'm not going to rely on, or even plan for, those kinds of avenues, that would be unwise. All I'm doing now is researching such avenues, figuring out the logistics and such, and before I even think about going down that path, I want to speak to a few trusted confidants, and then get all of your opinions on whether or not that would be a good idea (read: whether or not you'd be willing to give me your money.). And even if I do end up going through with this - which is as likely as it is not - it would be totally voluntary. It'd be awesome if you did donate, but I wouldn't expect nor demand it of any of you, you would have no obligation to do so.<em>

_Though, if I do go down that route, I'm going all out, my best food forward, as I do with all things. Who knows? I might make a 'Who I Am and What I Do' video to introduce myself, and you'd all get to see the ugly mug and terrifying voice that spawned Chris McGraw. _

_So that's past, present, and future. It's a brief(er), but still as important version of the 5/29/15 update on my profile. _

_Thank you all for sticking with me so far, and I invite you to continue sticking with me to the future. _

_'Till next time, _

_-PFB_

_("I'm not stupid, I'm smart from the other direction!")_


	25. Chapter 23

_A/N:_

_For those of you who didn't read the warning in the last chapter, and are now confused: **before** this chapter was published (which, for future reference, was on 8/9/15), the story was titled 'Mass Effect: The Saltorian War'. But, in the interests of rebranding the story so as to better reflect the final product (a rant/explanation I've repeated several times now, and will spare you all a final repeat), its title has now been changed to 'Mass Effect: The New Face of War'. _

_Thank your for your patience, and without further ado:_

_We're off!_

* * *

><p>Chapter 23<p>

* * *

><p><em>"Never count a Human as dead until you see his body. And even then you can make a mistake."<em>

_**— Lady Margot Fenring, quoting a Bene Gesserit aphorism, Dune**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>April 23rd , 2216<strong>_

* * *

><p>The void was silent, and the Captain would have it no other way. His ship was one of only twelve others like it in all of the Galaxy, but the honor came in the fact that the <em>HSV Vengeance<em> was also the most powerful. It was a fusion of the furiously advantageous Human technology, and the clearly superior Hegemony tech. It utilized Mass Effect travel technology, Human weaponry, Human armor, and Batarian technology, in essence, making it a Mock-Up design of the Alliance Navy's greatest designs, as of the Human-Turian war. The Hegemony knew their Pratr ships couldn't stand up against Humanity as they were now, they still needed _numbers_. But in order to get numbers, they needed more Human ships to tear apart and rebuild, and that was where Captain Soryl came into play.

He and his flotilla of twelve Pratrs had to move perfectly in order to execute their plans without flaw. Had it not been for the information donated by an individual Hegemony Intelligence only referred to as 'The Mysterious One', this maneuver would have most likely been impossible. But, thanks to TMO's information on Alliance Naval weaknesses, the Hegemony might finally be able to make Cruiser – or, Gods willing, Dreadnought – sized vessels infused with Human technology.

From what TMO had informed them, all Alliance ships, even the impenetrable Tuning Vessels, suffered from one unifying weakness: Their thrusters. As safe as the enormous geysers of flame and energy were, in a naval battle they were weaknesses waiting to be exploited, as they were any attacker's best bet at ripping apart the ship from the inside-out. A well placed, powerful shot could gut a ship as far forward as their engineering bay, and destroying that sector of a ship effectively crippled the rest of the vessel. Reflecting this, Captain Soryl's Flotilla's orders had been simple: incapacitate as many Alliance ships as they could safely haul out, but refrain from placing the Mock-Up flotilla in any extreme danger. In other words, Soryl could only feasibly take down four ships, but by Gods he would try to make one of them one of the Alliance's cruiser-analogues, the Destroyers. As odd a convention as the Destroyers were - though clearly not as strange as their spacecraft carriers - they were certainly effective in a naval battle, and being able to recreate that effectiveness would guarantee Batarian supremacy in the void.

The problem was, the Alliance's sensor arrays tracked countless things in the void. From things as simple as the undeniable heat signatures, to as obscure as engine emissions. This meant that the Flotilla had to do a hit-and-run strike on a blindingly close angle, as in, they had to go in at FTL, cripple the Alliance ships, FTL back out past weapons-ranges, and get ready for the second strike. This part of their hit and run would involve the most risk on their ends, as they had to drop out of the second FTL jump so they could turn around, kill their momentum, jump in to FTL a third time, hop over to the Alliance ships, drop out long enough to hook the Tethers onto the enemy ship and then jump back to FTL a _fourth time_ to drag them out of the solar system. Ignoring the stress this would put on their drive cores and engines, so many jumps, turns, and the added strain of dragging so much mass would put their ships superstructures under heavy strain, they may very well tear themselves apart, but they had to do it - they _needed_ this kind of power. Soryl had been wary of the tethers tactic, but he had been born in a time long before gravity tethers and eezo tractor beams, so some of his worries were moot, but still valid in their own right.

"Captain, we are ready, simply relay the command." His helmsman said.

Captain Soryl shook himself from his reverie, and sure enough, they were only a few minutes away from the Alliance blockade. Soryl knew that the Alliance was fond much less of the practice of 'blanketing', the Naval tactic that involved covering a planet's orbit in naval vessels, as many Citadel navies were; the Alliance preferred keeping their ships out of the fight, along the rim of the solar system. Soryl saw the merit in this strategy, especially when their weapons and tactics were taken into consideration, but the primary weakness was one that Soryl planned to exploit: They were, as advertised, taken away from the fight. As long as the Hegemony's forces came in hard and fast, they would get out with minimal - if _any_ - casualties.

"On my word, we begin the assault." The yellow-skinned, dark-eyed Captain said slowly, looking at the scanners, the Vengeance was the largest of his flotilla, and therefore the most powerful, thus, it was his duty to cripple one of the Alliance's 'Destroyers'. "In three..." He saw his sailors dutifully begin preparations, the engines were ready, "two..." Soon after the weapons lights went green, the Magnetically Accelerated, but Mass Affected rounds were ready to be fired. "One..." All that was left was to _just do it. "_Begin the assault."

And with that single phrase, his ship jolted forward. In a maneuver that belied their lack of practice, the near-kilometer long Vengeance rushed forwards at FTL Speeds. The VI's in the ship, made from the most advanced technology the Hegemony had to offer, and from shredded fragments of Human AI's, were the primary means of aiming weapon, because no organic alive could perform the shots they were about to attempt, and when the ships came within the two second window of the perfect shot, the Vengeance's VI worked perfectly. The ships shed FTL, fired its two cannons one right after the other, and entered FTL immediately thereafter, the ship itself shuddering and groaning under the force of the projectile launch and the FTL Flight.

"Weapons fired." Reported one of the officers.

"We're past the Human blockade."

"Wait five seconds and then exit FTL, then turn around and head back to the target again at FTL Speeds." With the trip they had planned they would be pushing the very limits of their engines, what with all of the static electricity they had pent up already, but this was a risk the crews of the Pratr Flotilla was willing to take, by putting all of their lives on the line, in relying upon experimental technology.

"Understood." Several moments passed, "exiting FTL."

An instant later, as the ship lurched, its engines flaring to turn it completely around and then halt its momentum, another officer reported in. "Captain, scanners show target ship is dead in the water."

"Clarification." The ship's engines were flaring brightly now that it was completely turned around, now its momentum needing to be canceled out.

"Engines severely damaged. Thrusters offline. Primary weapons offline. Defense turrets online." A pause, "other ships reporting in missions accomplished and are deploying gravity tethers."

"Captain, Alliance Frigates moving in, Dreadnoughts acquiring targeting solutions!"

"Get targeting solutions and fire on the frigates!" The Captain ordered, and several long seconds later the ship shuddered as its cannons fired one after the other. Two of the Frigates that were moving to intercept his ship were, according to the scanners right in front of him, utterly destroyed, the third and fourth were damaged but still moving, weapons fire was reported just as his ship jumped to FTL, missing the Human fire by incalculable kilometers.

When the ship reached its target, the Vengeance exited FTL. In what could only be described as a duel between synthetic minds, the Vengeance's VI shot forth gravity tethers as the AI of the Alliance Destroyer - and almost instantly afterwards the Humans as well - activated their point-defense weaponry.

"Captain, shields at ninety percent!" An officer reported as the ship was raked with gunfire, and then seconds later he corrected himself when the Humans' lasers came into play. "Shields at eighty three percent, sir, we can't withstand a sustained assault like this, not when their broadside cannons come back online!"

"Captain, their AI is trying to get past our firewalls!"

"Calibrate the gravity tethers." The Captain ordered calmly, "and flood them with as much junk data as you can, slow down their AI until we can hit FTL again, they won't be able to do a thing afterwards." He ordered, before following it up with a quick reminder, "make certain every crewman is wearing their hard suits. If that machine tries to cut our oxygen I don't want half of the ship to choke." As he pondered his next course of action. He considered trying to fry the Humans' technology, but he doubted extending their Mass Effect field would work, that theory was untested at best and doomed to fail at worst. "Has our momentum been canceled?"

"Yes sir."

"Launch the tethers when ready."

"Sir, spatial anomalies detected, they're launching missiles!"

"Activate the GARDIAN turrets." He felt the gut-clenching tension begin to set in despite it all, it was down to who could do what first: His people calibrating and launching gravity tethers, or the Humans recalibrating, and aiming Destroyer's broadside cannons. The ship shook violently just a few moments later. "Report!" He roared, knowing that it wasn't at all their broadsides - they would have been killed outright if it were.

"Missile strike to the crew quarters. No losses, no exposure, but severely damaged armor integrity!"

"Launch the disruptor torpedoes -" He caught himself, and elaborated, "- half of them. I want at least half of our rounds loaded in case they try something. Hit their broadside cannons." The Captain ordered, feeling more and more vulnerable as he did, not at all liking the feeling of a half dozen enormous magnetic cannons pointing right at his ship, there was a reason even the _Turians_ feared Alliance Naval Destroyers.

"Torpedoes launched. Six were deflected by their shields, the remaining fourteen hit their targets!" The officer reported vehemently. "We're showing all of their cannons crippled or damaged."

Almost immediately after the man was finished speaking, someone else called out, "gravity tethers calibrated and online, Sir! The ship is stuck to us!".

"Are the other Pratrs ready?" Soryl demanded quickly.

"Waiting for your go!"

"FTL! Get us out of here!" And with that, the Batarian ships bolted away, hurtling through the void at speeds light couldn't match.

Captain Soryl's heart was pounding, and sweat was forming in the ridges between his eyes. "I want a full report. How many of who and what did we lose?"

"We lost one ship, sir, a Frigate-sized vessel. HSV Speed." A communications officer reported after a few seconds' pause, "the HSV Torn Is also reporting significant reactor damage, but back-ups are adequate enough to get us back to Hegemony space."

"Send a message to Torfan, get them to have soldiers ready to board their ships. I don't want to stay in one place with these people, so they can keep all of them." Soryl ordered, "is there anything else?"

"No sir. Worried reports from the crew decks about leaking air, but the VI doesn't detect any exposure, large or small."

"We'll organize a space-walk after we get to Khar'Shan, check the damages." Soryl nodded, before he got to his feet with a grunt. "If there is nothing else, I shall retire to my quarters." Soryl couldn't help but allow himself a smile, their species had just scored their first victory against the Humans, and if the flotilla's performance was anything to go by, they would soon be getting _many_ more, indeed.

* * *

><p>If one had to use just one word from the myriad of languages the Milky Way had spawned, to describe Hans Griebun's fury, one could simply and succinctly say <em>cold.<em> The Admiral was calm, collected, and furious beyond all measure, but his anger was a cold one, it was a calculating one, as opposed to raw, unbridled, hot, rage. When one was scaldingly angry, one considered not what they did and thus would act rashly; obviously, such hot fury was not becoming of an Admiral of thirty years experience, so he prefered the cold method - where he was in complete control of his facilities.

The attack on his fleet had been an almost supreme test on his self control. Not since the Second Contact War had things been in such a furious, frantic fervor - even the Mercenary Wars were less frantic than what he'd just seen. The aliens were learning how to fight like Humans, and as such were learning to fight Humans - and that terrified the man that had once believed that his people had the strength to protect themselves. By using hit and run tactics, the Batarians damaged and crippled Human naval vessels, and then snatched them right out from his infamously iron grip. Now the aliens would do the Human thing - they would learn just how what worked, and figure out how to reverse engineer it. Worse was how Human technology didn't all revolve around the 'miracle substance' that was the Council's Element Zero - once the Citadel figured out how to do something, they could do it easily, so once they figured out how to recreate Human power generators, travel or weapons technology, the scales would favor the Humans less, and the aliens more.

Nothing made him more furiously terrified than that fact alone.

Hours had passed since the attack, and Griebun was working hard at keeping his voice level and his visage calm, though everyone aboard his three kilometer flagship could plainly see how much anger was bubbling beneath the surface of the unshakable admiral. He had long since passed the point where shouting would help siphon it in some small way, his cold fury was now what the crew of his flagship was being subjected to.

"In summary, sir... It was a perfectly executed hit-and-run." His Executive Officer said, summarizing his report.

"We lost – literally _lost –_ a Destroyer, three Frigates and four fighters... And we're going to call this a 'Hit and Run'?" Griebun growled, "I've already got to report to Arcturus that we've discovered Warp Tech on a Batarian world, and that a SIGMA Operative has gone Missing In Action... And now I've got to tell them we've suffered critical losses because of a Batarian _Snatch-and-Grab?"_ He demanded quietly, through raw fury was almost desperately trying to overwhelm him and burst forth from his accented voice.

The XO got the hint and didn't fight the name, "I'm sorry sir." She blanched.

"Anywhere from the upper hundreds to lower thousands of sailors. All under my command. All lost to the Batarians." Griebun stated.

"Yes sir."

"And they've already left our communications range?"

"Yes sir. When and if they get their comms back online, it'll be normal communications, nothing FTL, that they'll be limited to." A pause, "they're lost, unless we know exactly where they're going and where we can intercept their captors." The blonde-haired Naval Officer couldn't resist the urge and looked down, breaking the contact with Griebun's infuriated dark green eyes.

The fuming admiral sighed, "I want the fleet notified, and I want a message sent to the QRF's, they've got to be ready to book it if we get wind of them." He said, "and I want boarding parties ready for the Batarian Frigate we took down, I want that thing cleared so we can send it to Mars and figure out what we can about it." He ordered, with finality. "Now give me the report on the MIA SIGMA." He demanded, "what do we know?"

"Not enough, sir." The XO said, slightly more enthused that they were stepping into territory she knew at least a little more about, but still very wary of how angry the Admiral still was. "From what we've taken from the helmet-cam footage, the communications recordings, and personal accounts from the SIGMAs under his command, after he successfully led his SIGMAs in an assault on the Batarian base, taking down anyone who refused to surrender, John S-Two-Fifteen learned that mercenary reinforcements were imminent from the Batarian Warp-Gate. The alien warp-gate activated without warning or input from our side, and Two-Fifteen feared the worst was coming. So he volunteered himself to recon what was past the warp-gate, with instructions for his SIGMAs to call reinforcements and go in after him if he didn't return within the hour. Forty five minutes passed before the warp-gate's receiver was deactivated.

"Two-Fifteen's squadmates tried to reactivate the alien warp-gate and punch in its last known coordinates - it was at this time that they sent up the flares meant to call in OD3 reinforcements. Over an hour passed, during which the Dealers dropped in and secured the base and the prisoners, but the SIGMAs made no headway with the Warp-Gate. Our leading hypothesis is that the Batarians made it with Mass Relays in mind, meaning that in order for one to function, its twin also needed to work - in other words, they were linked and one can't function without the other - and since the receiver gate wasn't taking instructions, our gate wouldn't work at all." She paused to take a breath, "but I stress that this is an initial hypothesis posed by our AI's and the commanding SIGMA, who also posed a solution as to why the receiver gate wasn't working."

Griebun hummed, "what did they say?"

"According to George S-Two Sixty-Six, John's initial fear was that anything from massive reinforcements, to mercenary heavy armor, to something they simply weren't prepared for would come in from the other end of the warp gate. To that end, he prepared a contingency plan and called in a supply drop." A pause, "Two Fifteen's request was for package Kilo Oscar. The kiloton grenade." She supplied, "needless to say, he didn't use the grenade during the base assault, it was Two-Sixty-Six's opinion that he used it upon entering the gate, though for what reason, he had no answer."

"So, Two-Fifteen is dead, then?" Griebun pressed.

The XO shook her head, "The Alpha Squad's second in command – two-Sixty-Six – and everyone else we debriefed vehemently denied the possibility that Two Fifteen is dead, much to the contrary they believe him to have been transported to the mercenary headquarters, likely in ruins, and is currently committing himself to destroying what's left before contacting us." The XO nodded, "how such an act is possible, they wouldn't say - classified military technologies were in play, George admitted. In spite of their recommendations, must still make the declaration of 'MIA'..."

Before the XO could continue, there was a sudden hustle and bustle of activity. The Admiral, with a slight frown, leaned forward to the AI Station. "Report." He ordered it.

The Ship's AI appeared in an instant, dutifully relaying what was going on to the perturbed Admiral. _"We are being hailed, Admiral."_ A pause, _"but confusion is ensuing through the communications officers, they need orders, as we are being hailed over Turian frequencies."_

The Admiral, anger forgotten and now replaced by curiosity, repeated the AI. "Turian? As in, not Batarian?" A horrifying thought came to mind, but he threw it away by making sure his memory wasn't failing him. "The Relay _was_ moved, yes?"

_"Correct. Several days ago. We are not detecting anything coming in on the long-range scanners."_

"The same scanners that failed to warn us about the Batarian Flotilla." Griebun clarified.

_"The same."_ The AI clarified, not picking up on Griebun's point.

"I want the fleet ready for another attack." A beat passed, "and open up communications. I want to know what they're saying."

_"Beginning playback."_

For several long, drawn out seconds, there was static. Finally a garbled voice could be made out, it was saying something, and to Griebun, the voice didn't sound Turian, much to the contrary, it sounded Human, the English-sounding, flangeless speech enforced Griebun's theory.

"Can we clear this up?"

_"I will do my best."_

The audio played back again, Griebun only now realized what it was. "Is this a recording?"

_"Auditory patterns would suggest as -"_

The silence and the static was cut by a Human voice, it was young, but it sounded as if it was still yet fighting puberty. _"... Not dead."_ The voice, obviously male, sounded as if it was in some sort of pain. Several more silence filled the suddenly pregnant air, _"... intel required..."_ The voice faded out, Griebun could not at all understand how the quality was so bad.

"What is -" An Officer began, but someone literally smacked the back of his head to quiet him, as the broadcast continued.

_" -ate destroyed... nded... wait for my... S-Two-Fif... Out."_

"What the hell was that?" Griebun demanded of the machine, it being the only thing on the ship that was likely to make any kind of logical sense out of what had just happened.

_"It is likely that that was our missing SIGMA, Admiral."_ The AI reported helpfully, _"as I said -"_

A new voice entered the fray, accompanied by the deceptively light metallic-sounding 'thunks' that belied the sheer weight of the body making them. "Turian frequencies." Said the SIGMA Commander as he entered the bridge. "That _was_ John." He stated with the utmost confidence, "he_ did_ survive his actions, and Admiral, with all due respect, do not _ever_ keep something like this from me again if you value your rank." The Commander stated boldly, the human voice from behind the polarized visor belied the inhuman, machine-like way the man looked and carried himself with. "AI, Query. From where did the broadcast originate?" So few spoke to AI's like the machines they were that many in the room - the AI included - were shocked at the tone the SIGMA had taken, but the very few that knew how SIGMAs worked knew not to be too terribly shocked - he was almost defensively sinking into the deadly seriousness the SIGMAs were reputed for. The time for playing and courtesies had passed a very long time ago, for this man.

The AI, shocked though it may be, took it in stride, it had heard from its brothers and sisters in the Cloud how blunt SIGMAs could be when angered. _"The comm-buoys in this system, Commander."_

"I thought we'd jammed those up tight with junk traffic?" The Admiral growled.

_"We did. I recognized the bits and pieces as Human in origin and let it slip through the cracks."_ The AI responded.

"Can you track it? Where did it come from?"

The AI deflated a bit at this, _"unfortunately, sir, the signal and the transmission is far too corrupted to even try. Wherever he is, it clearly isn't in charted space, and its comm-buoy has an embarrassingly low bandwidth, likely only meant for extremely compressed burst-frequencies. Two-Fifteen likely did not have time to compress or burst his report, and had to make do."_

The SIGMA grunted, "I want everything you have getting everything we can from that transmission, I don't care how -"

"Now hold on just a minute!" This was exactly what the Admiral needed - some uppity Augmented Asshole coming on to his ship and ordering his crew around. "You can't just give _my_ crew orders, _Commander."_ The man warned.

"Under SIGMAuthority I sure as hell can, Admiral." The SIGMA challenged right back, "I'll call protocol Sixty Six if it means I'll get my man back." No one present knew that threat, even if the Admiral had known the one before it, "now sit down, shut up, and let me do my job." The angry SIGMA strode up to the Admiral's galaxy map and made to interface with it, but the irate Admiral had had enough.

"SIGMA, I am ordering you to stand down immediately, else I will have you arrested and brought up on charges. I will _not_ allow insubordination on _my_ ship." He stood up to meet the SIGMA's covered, cold gaze.

"Perhaps you didn't hear me, Admiral." Said the SIGMA, who towered over the Admiral by a decent two and a half feet. "Or perhaps you don't know exactly what SIGMAuthority means. In either case, I will forgive you. But if you try to arrest me while I'm trying to get the information I need to prepare a rescue operation, you'll only succeed in getting that poor marine with the rifle -" He pointed behind him at the very marine who had been trying to surreptitiously chamber a round in his gun, said marine nearly dropped bricks in his pants as the SIGMA pointed him out with unflinching accuracy. "- hurt, and yourself relieved of command. I _can_ do that, do _not_ test me." The elite growled deeply.

The two stared at each other in the deathly silent ship. Even the soundless void of outer space couldn't compare to how quiet the bride was at that very moment, as soldier and officer stared each other down, the former with the power to break the latter, and the latter with the power to utterly ruin the former.

"The Alliance will hear about this, SIGMA." The Admiral's thinly veiled threat was loud and clear to the Commander - he was well aware of the Alliance/Spartan politics, and his stunt here wouldn't be helping anything.

The SIGMA didn't care, though, _no one_ on Sparta would see him at fault for what he was doing here. "As will my General." The SIGMA responded, before he turned back to the galaxy map. "AI, Instruction:... " He ordered, shooting a quick, scalding glance to the Admiral standing behind him.

The Admiral's glare was hotter than Sol itself, but he backed down and ordered his crew to get back to work.

* * *

><p><em><strong>April 26th 2216<strong>_

* * *

><p>If he were to describe his first 'official' mission as succinctly as possible, he would surprise anyone who asked and say he'd gotten exactly what he'd expected. John S2-15 had practically been raised on the 'first contact with the enemy' montra, so when he'd leaped on to Siler, he'd been ready for most anything, and the situation he found himself in now was almost outside the realm of 'most anything'.<p>

His augmented ears were filled with the sounds of labored breathing, he'd been fighting on the run for three days now, non-stop, without sleep, and was beginning to concern himself, as his limit before he'd gotten augmentations was two and a half. One may think that would mean he could go on for much longer, but he was still largely getting used to his changed body, so some things were coming quicker than others. The area around him was densely wooded, but he didn't let that fool him, he gave himself five minutes before the Turians - hot on his trail - found him and re-engaged.

_"Equipment check."_ The heavily breathing, seven and a half foot tall teenager ordered himself. It would have been far easier to have thought it, but he was functioning on a collective no sleep over the last seventy two hours, with heavy, pitched battles littering his extended day, veteran OD3's would be hard pressed to keep going after this, but he was a SIGMA - trainee or not, he had to force the soldier in him to come to the surface so the weak Human in him could go away. Though the noise didn't help him focus on his surroundings, it helped John S2-15 focus upon the here-and-now, the staying awake despite the stressful seventy two hours of near-non-stop combat against enemies he truly knew little about.

"Yes sir!" He panted faithfully to the invisible Commander issuing him the orders. "I have..." He panted, removing the tactical vest over his optimized, scorched, scratched, and in some places_ torn_ Titan armor. He opened up each of the magazine pouches, "three magazines, all full." He felt for the ammunition for his sidearm, "two magazines for my pistol." He said breathily, "zero grenades, one field ration." He and his squads hadn't been given too many rations for their original mission, it was supposed to be a quick snatch-and-grab. He made a mental note to always carry a week's worth of food, no matter what, no matter when, no matter where. "Cell Fluid... Out." He had given a majority of his cell-fluid to one fellow SIGMA II and several wounded civilians, the rest he'd used during his time here, almost all of it had been used after he'd detonated the Kiloton Grenade.

_"Good Job, soldier."_ He heard the phantom-commander praise, _"weapons status!"_

"Yes sir!" He slipped the vest back over his chest, patted it down, then retrieved the rifle from his back. "Rifle." He looked down the sights, the red dot had been smashed the previous day but the Irons still worked, "model… Twenty-one Eighty Six, Standard line, Special Forces design Mark Two. Modular." He gulped heavily, his throat long since dry. "Half condition, in need of magazine." He forced himself to retrieve a magazine and slap it into the rifle. "Side-arm. Twenty-two hundred year model, Standard line, Infantry model." He put the rifle on his back, and retrieved the side arm from its magnetic holster. "Fully loaded." He checked the sights, they were off, it must have been when he'd smashed it into the face of a Turian before the bomb went off. "Sights off by a marginal amount."

_"Will it affect your combat abilities?"_ The phantom-commander asked him.

"Sir, _no_ sir!" John stated, though from his position on his knee, it looked much the opposite. "Combat knife." He continued, still breathing heavily. He withdrew the combat knife, which looked very much like the standard for the OD3's in the twenty second century, an adamantine coated blade with a sharp cutting edge and a serrated flat side. "Perfect condition." He'd cleaned it with a small amount of water from his now empty canteen just this morning.

_"You've got work to do."_ The phantom-commander stated, _"status?"_

"Status." He breathed, "status..." John swallowed hard, his dry throat begging for water. "Is as follows." Some strength back in his voice, he manipulated his helmet's HUD. "Smart Skin rebooted successfully - some functions damaged. Wound repair malfunctioning." He pressed his hand against the wound in his stomach, though it had been cauterized two days ago, stress had opened it up again and now, hours after the fact, it was still trickling out some blood. "Concussion." He smacked his palm into the side of his head and gritted his teeth, nothing. "Recovered. Radiation -" He checked his HUD, he was still hot from the detonation, but it was nothing near life-threatening, especially for him, not by a long shot. "Green."

_"State your mission."_

"Recon." John had to push the word out with an entire lungful of air, the wound and the lack of sleep were catching up to him, but, he rationalized that it was nothing he hadn't faced before in training. "Collect information on Turian Mercenary Group designate: Spartec. Relay information to Alliance Command... Extract..." He looked up, to the dark night sky, barely any stars hung in it, he wondered if they were in a pocket solar system 'above' the Milky Way. "... Somehow." He relented he had no idea how to extract himself, he didn't even know if his message to the Second Fleet had even made it, let alone whether or not they even received it. He had planned before on stealing an alien starfighter capable of FTL – because, from what he understood, half of them were – but those were defended by far more people than he could take on in his wounded state.

_"Is that lip I just heard, SIGMA? What, you think because your skin-suit's fried and you took a bullet means that you can't -"_ The phantom commander's voice disappeared when John heard a twig snap.

Like a switch had been flipped, John was no longer in escape and recovery mode. No longer was he out of breath, no longer was the wound in his side hurting like it had been, no longer was his throat dryer than Mercury, and no longer there a phantom commander there to keep him awake, the very lethargy that was dragging at his mind had vanished, too. Now John was in combat mode, everything in him down to his very blood was tuned and ready to go. In an instant his hand locked upon the grip of the rifle with a grip arguably stronger than steel and he brought it to bear.

For several moments there was utter silence, John knew his pursuers had made a mistake, and his pursuers knew too. It was a game of attrition, one that John was destined to lose, his adversaries were better equipped, better supplied, better rested, and all he had was his instincts, something none of them could replicate, and those instincts told him that he shouldn't fire the first shot, he would only give away his position.

_I have the training of our standards under my belt..._ John thought to himself, as he slowly scanned his surroundings, only able – and only willing – to see them down the barrel of his gun. _The Navy taught me to be a swift predator. The Army taught me to be a relentless foe, the Marines taught me to be a brutal warrior._ He thought these things to calm his mind and his senses, and fortunately for him, it was working, his breathing was slowing and his mind was clearing, allowing his augmented hearing and eyesight to pick up on details adrenaline had disallowed him to. _If and when I go home, the N7 will teach me to be a deadly operator. If and when I go home, the OD3's will teach me to be an unstoppable force._ He inhaled once and exhaled deeply, picking up on the ever-so-slight movement of the Turians to his two-o'-clock. _If... And **when** I go home... He braced for gunfire, the SIGMA will teach me to be a swift, relentless, brutal, deadly, unstoppable and undefeatable augmented warrior._

The Turians were trying to surround him, they were trying to put him into a crossfire. If he still had his smart watch he could have activated his hard-light barrier and bounded outwards, but now all he had was his Titan armor, and the muscle suit, partially destroyed as it was, with bits and pieces of the silvery synthetic muscle sticking out at odd angles in the several places he'd taken a bullet. He had two ways out of here, he could take the one avenue of escape still available, to his direct six-o'-clock, or he could try something new. With a deep inhale and similarly deep exhale, he decided to take a leaf out of military history class. Oftentimes Humans of ancient wars past – the Vietnamese campaign in World War 3, and the aptly titled Vietnam War both came to mind – had taken to using the very environment around them as an avenue of attack, defense, and, more appropriate for John, _escape._

_Three..._ John prepared himself to jump with all the power his augmented muscles and only slightly depowered muscle-suit would give him.

_Two..._ One mistake would mean capture, one mistake would mean death.

_One..._ He wrapped himself in a biotic aura, he had to execute this perfectly, lest he make One Mistake.

_Now!_ John abandoned all pretense, he destroyed the ideas the Spartecs had gotten of him, as he leapt upwards. The Turians had expected he'd open fire, begin fighting his last stand, but instead, John fled in a way none of them had expected. Fortunately for John, whose steel-grip locked tightly around a thick branch, his actions gave him two seconds of stunned silence in which to gain his footing, but unfortunately for him, those two seconds were burned faster than he could have thought possible, and just as he began sprinting, tree-to-tree, branch to branch, the Turians opened fire.

John couldn't return fire, he'd realized as he leapt between an opening between two trees and landed on another. Keeping this in mind he holstered his rifle in favor for the far more maneuverable pistol, as he continued sprinting. He heard the Spartecs shouting orders and he felt a few rounds ping off of his shields, but they were confused and he used this. Keeping his footing on the tree branches was tough but all he had to do was keep them running for another thirty meters, where they would enter a thick brush full of enormous trees, there he could -

_SNAP!_

The few flaws in John's plan made themselves apparent as he leapt from one branch to another. One being he didn't truly know how to climb and maneuver trees, he could appropriately judge branch thickness and thus if they would carry his augmented weight, but that didn't change the fact that this was more or less outside his training, and while he was good at improvising, he couldn't ignore facts. One such fact he couldn't ignore, was the second – most damning flaw – in his plan: his weight. Titan Armor was heavy, and even his optimized set - which was significantly lighter than the set the Operatives used - was still very heavy, and when he added in his weapons, ammunition, and kevlar tactical vest, his weight far surpassed several hundred pounds, this limited his maneuverability on a tree, as a branch could easily snap under his weight.

Just like the one that had snapped just now, right under John's right foot, sending him tumbling to the ground. The impact shattered his shields, and he felt his right arm dislocate. The growling SIGMA II wrenched his pistol from his right hand and forced it into his left, before he got to his feet. The environment hadn't changed much, it was still green, save for the brown of the trees. The only thing that was different changed in seconds when the miniscule metal bullets started ripping through the trees, three rounds pinged off of his armor before John took cover behind the traitorous tree.

_This is it._ John thought, grimly. He couldn't run anymore, so now was the time to fight.

So, bearing this in mind, John broke cover. His left hand snapped up and found a target, he squeezed the trigger three times. Three magnum rounds soared through the air, leaving small trails and a smell of ozone just before they slammed into the Turian's barriers. Two more bullets soared from a scowling SIGMA's pistol, the first slammed into the Turian's kevlar-like armor, but the second dragged itself across a good portion of its face, putting it down.

_They heal faster._ Thought John, going back into cover, suppressed by the alien rifle-fire. _I have to put that one down for good..._ He was breathing heavily, adrenaline was once again flooding his system. _I need to bring –_ Those thoughts, coupled with two more slugs soaring past him, gave John the idea he needed.

_Vi-Contactus._ Force Contact, this was what John needed to use. They would overwhelm him with numbers, but Vi-Contactus was meant to be adaptable to any situation, he could use their numbers against them. All he had to do, he looked to his dislocated arm, was get equipped for the job. Rapidly inhaling and exhaling as he holstered his pistol, John gripped his arm tight, and with a loud, quick bark, shoved it back in its socket. He could immediately feel it becoming sore, and a part of him questioned if he'd set it properly, but he ignored the feeling as he flexed his muscles and twitched his fingers, he didn't have full dexterity, but he could use Vi-Contactus.

John nodded, a solemn scowl on his face as he retrieved his rifle. His rifle was braced against his left arm, and his combat knife was stuck in an iron grip in his right hand. He had one chance to bring them into a melee-battle, and he needed his armor and shields ready for such an assault.

_Wave tactics._ Barton had told them once, when they were studying the Elcoor. _Wave tactics are such named that they are meant to bring a force innumerable into the melee-range of your enemies. Many species employ these, ours included, but Elcoor, Krogan, and Vorcha _specialize_ in wave tactics._

John had to be a one-man tidal wave if he wanted his plan to work, and he prayed it did. John's shields hit one hundred just as the Turians stopped firing, to let their weapons cool. John broke cover with an ear-shattering, bellowing roar, meant more to intimidate his enemies than to make himself feel any different, he knew he had exactly three seconds before the Turians switched out, and those with cooled weapons began firing. This in mind, John sprinted directly at the Spartecs, his rifle barking on full auto as his biotics flared brightly. In two seconds he got to the Turian defensive line, his shields having shattered and his barriers flaring violently just as he slammed his rifle into a Turian's face like a baseball bat.

Now John felt confidant, they were already beginning to surround him. John shouted loudly, his suit's computers only worked enough to keep his HUD and his Shield working, but he prayed the voice-recognition software was still up.

_"EMP Blast!"_ John roared, throwing his rifle like a spear.

While a horribly inappropriate use of a ranged weapon, the effect desired was achieved thanks to John's doubly augmented strength, and the special forces rifle impaled itself in the throat of a Turian just as John's suit detonated its Electromagnetic Pulse. John knew the Mercenaries' rifles weren't military grade, though he had not the time to validate those thoughts, so they would be fried outright, and on the off chance they were military grade and he was wrong, he still had two minutes before they could be used again. John didn't question his luck, the Turians were his size, so he had to get into contact with one immediately.

_Choose your target..._ He saw one hurriedly trying to exchange heat-sinks, _and STRIKE!_ He leapt forward.

The Turian knew what was happening and tried to slam the butt of his rifle into John's armored face. John smacked the rifle away with his left hand, and wrapped his arm around the alien's left arm. John tightened his grip and the alien dropped the rifle, without even breaking stride John's right fist, its mass increased by his biotics, slammed twice into the Turian's stomach before it sailed into the Turian's face. John yanked back on the Turian's gripped arm, spinning it around; using the momentum of the spinning Turian John slammed it into a tree, just before he lunged his knife into its throat. Blue blood sprayed out as John severed the Turian's spinal cord, but it was dead, John had to leave it now.

It was still useful to him, however, as evidenced by John kicking the Turian into one of its charging allies. John somersaulted to the living Turian, and at the bottom of his roll he sprung his legs up, they found the Turian's neck and locked around it. John yanked his legs down, his hands bracing his body on the ground, giving him balance. The Turian flipped over John as his ally's corpse hit the ground, John – upon feeling the Turian's head hit the ground – reached forward and ripped the knife from his kill's throat, before he threw his hands over his head. Using the momentum of his hands, John got to a sitting position and unlocked his legs, the Turian tried to react fast enough but John slammed his knife into the Turian's eye. For good measure John pounded his fist into the Turian's throat three times, before he leapt to his feet.

Now he had three opponents to deal with, all surrounding him. He felt blood leaving new wounds, but didn't even consider where they had come from, only deciding that the Turians were - without a doubt - using specialized ammunition, they had to, to pierce his skin suit.

_Choose your –_ His target was chosen for him when he leapt forward with a wild haymaker punch.

John's right arm came up to block the Turian's blow, and he immediately twisted his arm around the Turian's before he stabbed the knife into it. The Kevlar proved tough to pierce, especially since it hardened in response to physical trauma, but it gave in the end, with John locking himself to the Turian by his arm. The Turian screamed in pain and its allies – sensing weakness in John – surged forth. John resisted smiling as he leapt up and drove both of his feet into the chests of the charging Turians, with one's chest caving in entirely, leaving it to die a painful, gurgling death. The stunned, surviving Turian backed away, giving John time enough to reach to his captive Turian's head, he forced its camouflage hood down and grabbed onto its mandible.

_Another weakness on a Turian is their mandible._ John recalled as he locked his grip on the Turian's lower facial extremity. _Akin to testicles on a Human... You break a mandible, you'll have broken a Turian._ John pulled, the Turian screamed a bloodcurdling scream.

In a moment that lasted an eternity for the Turian, but only a second for John, John violently ripped the hardened spike of cartilage, bone, and muscle off of the Turian's face. It was screaming in pain as blood began pouring down the front of its throat, and though John still wasn't done with it, he was thankful that it was now using its free hand to quell the bloodflow, and not to rip into John's own throat.

The Turian's allies made a redoubled effort to get to John, but John swung his Turian into the Turian coming from the right, before he unlocked the knife from its arm, sending them both tumbling to the ground. A new Turian leapt for John and they two slammed to the ground, but the Turian didn't have a chance to inflict further injury upon John, who smashed its throat with the mandible of the screaming Turian, collapsing his target's windpipe and causing major internal damage, it too would die a painful, oxygen-starved death as blood traveled up its throat.

John quickly, but laboriously, got to his feet, only to have another new Turian tackle him from behind. It latched onto his back and locked its arm around John's throat, as more Turians surrounded him. John was undeterred, though he was tired, he ran backwards as fast as he could until he hit something. He promptly impacted a tree at high-speeds, knocking the wind out of the Turian on his back and giving him back the ability to breathe. The Turian fell from his back and John stomped on its chest, he felt his boot get caked in gore as it soared straight in to the alien's chest and destroy its major organs. John's fiery gaze immediately was locked on to the men surrounding him as he ripped his pistol off of his thigh. More Turians – now smartly armed with melee weaponry – rushed him, his pistol barked as his knife stabbed, he flowed into and out of melee range of the Turians. Their knives scraped at his armor and tore at his skin suit, many pierced his skin outright and drew blood, but he ignored the pain.

With several Turian's dead at its end, his pistol clicked on empty, back it went on his thigh as he backhanded a Turian with his biotically charged left fist. The use of his biotics was beginning to catch up with the child soldier, as his stamina was rapidly depleting, his body was nearly out of the food in his stomach and fat to burn, soon, to continue to make the energy it needed for his biotics, it would begin to eat at his dense, augmented muscles.

John knew this but he also knew that he couldn't _stop_ using his Biotics, they were his greatest advantage against the Turians, and were evening things out - his biotics removed their advantage in numbers. Three more fell to his blade and one more to his fist before one Turian found his achilles heel. Another Turian leapt on John's back and slammed his knife into the space between the armor plates on his left shoulder. It just barely made it past the synthetic muscles and into his skin before the plates could clamp down and shatter the blade; its damage done, the blood flowing, John was injured now and could barely move his left arm. Several Turians capitalized on this and leapt at him. The one on his back brought him to the ground, several more leapt upon him in a dog-pile, as new, freshly-faced ones arrived, carrying rifles.

John, completely immobile, wore a scowl that could kill. He did not want to die like this, he wanted to take more of them with him. He continued thrashing about like a child throwing a tantrum, but he couldn't get more than an inch of breathing room before he felt something pierce his neck, and the world then went dark.

* * *

><p>Their breaths labored, their bodies tired, their muscles sore, and a great deal of them dead, the Turian Spartecs didn't move for ten seconds solid. Nothing happened, no one was killed, the Human didn't fight further, the battle had been won.<p>

"Is it _dead?"_ A Turian called, fear carefully hidden by a fit of coughing, the Human had smashed its throat so hard it could barely breathe, let alone call out for a sitrep.

"Unconscious." The Sergeant said, "off of him. Riflemen, keep your weapons on him!" He ordered, not truly believing that the demon that had killed so many had actually been taken down by a drug so small.

Slowly, the pile of Turians pinning the Human to the ground got up and off of him. The Human was revealed, its armor scorched by fire, covered in debris and blood, and marked by bullet and by blade alike. This thing right now looked so fragile, a single bullet and it would be dead, but the Sergeant had his orders.

_"Sergeant Victus, respond, damn it!"_ He heard the company commander call over the radio.

The Sergeant activated his Omni-Tool. "_Sergeant Adrien Victus, Spartec 4-1. Target down."_

There was several seconds of silence, "_there was only one?"_ The Company Commander did not sound like he'd expected that. _"An entire base was destroyed, over a thousand of my men dead in a flash, and dozens – if not, at least a hundred – more dead because of the enemy's actions... And you're telling me there was only ONE?!"_ The man obviously didn't buy it.

_"I'll send you my mono-cam later, sir, but I can guarantee you, one target."_

The Commander sighed, audibly over the communicator, _"bring him to the secondary base. He came here under the impression that we're mercenaries, so we've got to keep him thinking that. Strip him of his weapons and armor and patch up his wounds, I want to know everything he does."_ A pause, _"that's an order."_

Victus rolled his eyes, "_yes, sir._" He cut the omni-tool, called in some shuttles, and relayed the orders.

Now that the battle was over, he had time to go over the battlefield. Looking up showed him the canopies of leaves that had been shredded when the Human had taken to the trees to escape. The previously untouched green roof over the forest now had large holes ripped from its previously serene, green beauty. The trees themselves had been torn apart by armor-piercing gunfire, and were only still standing out of spite. The bodies, however, were what caught Victus off guard. The Human, using whatever Martial Art it was that he'd used, had killed dozens in this battle alone. One poor Spartec had a rifle literally sticking out of its face, only slightly staunching the flow of blue blood. One poor Spartec had to be knocked out because its mandible had been ripped off, only for it to be used to stab another Turian, who Victus had no honest idea if he was going to survive, despite his apparent temporary recovery.

Sergeant Victus shook his head, and offered a quick prayer to the Spirits for these men. He hoped whatever information they got from the Batarians was worth it, because the lives they'd lost to give them the impression of assistance wasn't.

"Shuttle's here, Sergeant." Said a Spartec, hood down and monocle hanging loosely by its wire.


	26. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

* * *

><p>"<em>I'm not an ordinary prisoner."<em>

_**-Mikhail Khodorkovsky**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>April 27th<strong>_ _**, 2216**_

* * *

><p>"Throw him in there." Sergeant Victus ordered his comrade, keeping his gun trained on their prisoner as he followed the <em>three<em> Turian men who were collectively hauling the massive, heavy Human man in to their base's interrogation chamber. To say the man was heavy would be severely understating it - he had to outweigh most adult Krogan, if not a young Elcoor, how the hell could a Human being be so spirit's damned_ heavy?_

"Yes, Sergeant." Grunted one of the Spartecs through tightly clenched teeth, they'd needed a sky-car just to get him off of the ground, their three strongest men were there just to make sure he didn't fall back onto it, let alone their excusably sub-par attempts to drag him across the ground. The damned Human was so heavy his dragging feet were leaving small grooves in the ground.

Victus had to get ahead of the men to slap the holo-plate that would let them in to the interrogation chamber, because it was clear they couldn't do it themselves. Once they entered, they would have thrown the Human into the chair, but he was so heavy they'd just dropped it as heavily and as uncomfortably as they could. Almost immediately thereafter they had him turned around and omni-cuffs were pinning his arms and legs to the ground, immobilizing the Human entirely.

"Remove his helmet, that vest, and his pauldrons." Victus ordered, and the men obeyed without any grumbles, though he could tell through the stiff movements they weren't too happy about it. He'd seen what the SIGMA's pauldrons could do, the Human version of the omni-blade was devastating, and he didn't want to give it any chance to attack.

It took them several long, somewhat frustrating minutes to find out just how to disassemble the armor, they ended up having to find its joints and prying them open with the limited heavy machinery they possessed, Victus let their wishes that they were at their main base slide, he understood, they were stressed out and they'd lost a _lot_ of friends thanks to this monster. He shook his head as they brought the jaw-like machine to the joints underneath the SIGMA's helmet, however they trained or made these SIGMAs, they did it _right._

Case in point, the very second the jaws touched the helmet's joint, the suit's automated features let loose a _massive_ electric shock, to the point where the electricity visibly arced from the SIGMA's neck to the Spartec with the jaws. The jaws were fried almost instantaneously and the Spartec jumped so high and shouted so loudly he practically flew across the room, his very skin was smoldering.

Worse, the damned Human woke up.

"Get that man to medical!" Victus roared over the SIGMA's struggles, his rifle trained directly upon the angry man. "Calm him down!" He ordered, fingering his communicator, "we need backup in the interrogation cell!" He yelled in to it, as one of the Spartecs tried to forcibly pacify the SIGMA by slamming the butt of his rifle into the back of the Augmented Human's head.

All it did was succeed in denting the Human's helmet and almost shattering the rifle's stock. The Human tried to call on its biotics, but given its lack of space in which to move its hands, it couldn't make any of the gestures required to try any of the more explosive attacks, all he could do was increase and decrease his own mass, and that did him very little given the nigh-indestructible chains the omni-cuffs were attached to.

The SIGMA continued to struggle as the injured Spartec was brought outside, and their reinforcements streamed inside. By the time all was said and done, there were nearly two dozen rifles aimed at the Human, who finally got the hint and calmed down. Things were tense for an entirety of sixty seconds, as twenty hooded, monocled Spartecs stared down the barrel of their rifles at the SIGMA, who similarly stared back at them from behind his lifeless golden visor. For the life of him, Victus couldn't tell who was more intimidating - his men and their guns, or the cold, ironically inhumane stare of the man behind the mask.

"You are a captive of PMC _Spartec_." Victus said slowly and clearly, he'd heard rumors that Humans never got Citadel translators out of some ill-placed spite, his English wasn't fluent, it was largely impossible for Turians to speak English period, but they could string to string _some _words together. "We follow Turian model for Captive of War." Saying 'Hierarchy' in English, literally _was_ impossible for Turians, so he simply used his species' name as a replacement, similarly, it was incredibly difficult for them to make out the letter 'S', thus he avoided it when he could.

The prisoner didn't react in the slightest.

"You are hurt." Victus said simply, "we want to help you."

Still no reaction.

"I… implore you allow my men to remove your armor."

"No." The prisoner finally responded, his voice deeply augmented and masked by his helmet; what surprised Victus was that the prisoner spoke in what he instantly recognized as Palsdan - much like Turians, Humans were largely unable to replicate their language, but they could pronounce the simple words.

The Turian shook his head exasperatedly, "do you have a translator?" He asked, the Prisoner nodded, Victus felt relieved. "Listen, we may be a Mercenary group but we follow the Hierarchy's standards when it comes to Prisoners of War." He said, "you're hurt, bleeding, bruised, have a great deal of bullet wounds, and you're radioactive." He listed off, "we are required by our chain of command to give you medical assistance."

"I refuse foreign aid." The SIGMA responded succinctly.

The Spartec sighed, though his - and everyone else's - rifle was still glued to the SIGMA. "At least let us remove your helmet, we want nothing to do with the Alliance's war, we would barter your life with them." In truth, such a thing was illegal in the Hierarchy - prisoners couldn't be traded for monetary or resource value, only other prisoners - but he had to play his mercenary role.

"They will not deal with foreign mercenary powers." The SIGMA informed them, the Spartec could tell what the man meant: Whatever mission he'd been on must have been deniable, so if the Spartecs went to the Alliance with this, all they would get would be confused glares and stubborn denials.

"Then we'll execute you and be done with it." The Spartec bluffed.

"You abide by Hierarchy standards. It is illegal for the Turian Hierarchy to execute enemy Prisoners of War without valid reason. I am unarmed and injured, you have no reason." He listed off startlingly quickly, "and to do so would not only ostracize you from the Hierarchy, but would earn you the ire of Sparta, the Alliance, and the Salarian Special Tasks Group."

The Spartec blinked, wondering what the Salarians could possibly have to do with this, but he tossed aside those thoughts. The damnable man had him cornered, and they both knew it.

Victus decided to try a different approach, Human biotics were largely underdeveloped, to the point where, if they used their abilities too much, they would burn through whatever food they had in their stomach and then start burning their own muscle mass for energy. This Human had been fighting his men for two days straight, and they had evidence of extensive biotic use throughout, that meant he had to be starving by now, and luckily for it, they kept levo rations with them, for situations almost exactly like the one he found himself in right now.

"We have food for you." Victus said, "I know you've burned yourself out on your biotics, you're no good to yourself or your Alliance dead."

"I'll live." The man stubbornly refused.

"No, you _won't."_ The Turian pressed, "please, we don't want to hurt you, we -"

"If you didn't want to hurt me, you wouldn't have tried to kill me before, and knock me out just now." The Human countered, "I will accept your help if you give me my pistol."

The Spartec blinked, _What?_ The Human didn't ask for a shuttle off-world, or an FTL Comm to his people, he wanted a _gun?_

"We cannot do that."

"A SIGMA must never be without his sidearm." The Human repeated, the way he said it made it sound like some kind of mantra, like something that had been said to him so many times that it resonated from within his very bones.

Victus sighed deeply, praying to the spirits this wouldn't explode in his face. "We will give you your pistol with the magazine and the firing mechanism removed." Human guns had a lot more moving and interconnected parts than Citadel weaponry, but were deceptively simple to take apart and effectively neuter.

"I can accept that."

The Turian blinked again, the Human seemed religiously dedicated to the possession of his gun, and yet he was willing to get a bastardized, gun-shaped dataweight instead? He shook his head, screw it, he'd never understand Humans. "Lower your weapons."

* * *

><p>Things went somewhat quickly after the Spartecs and the SIGMA reached an ultimatum, after he'd been given his pistol, the Human seemed pacified, which allowed the Spartecs to finish cleaning up and making livable their base. It had been close to a half of a decade since any Turian had lived here, and it was obvious in the dust that had settled and the lack of use many of the tools present showed. It took them a day to do, but it was made liveable eventually and soon it was running like a well-oiled Turian machine. The SIGMA always, invariably, had two guards on twelve-standard-hour shifts guarding him, and the only time his cuffs were removed were when he was given his nutrient paste. The SIGMA had proven his stubbornness when he'd simply hooked the tube of paste to the front of his mask and turned it, before proceeding to eat the paste <em>through the helmet,<em> no doubt an innovation afforded to him by the Quarians.

The Human also never slept, throughout the three days he'd been a captive, plus the two he had fought, he hadn't been shown sleeping _once._ It was very clear he was exhausted, but he hadn't been shown succumbing to temptation to sleep. He likely had correctly predicted what the Spartecs would do if he fell out - take the damned helmet off and try to catalogue his injuries. They _did_ have standards, and even if the Human didn't want help, they would at least put themselves in a position where they could help if it came to be that he couldn't refuse it any longer, lest he risk his life doing so.

A week passed from his capture before he finally slipped up and fell out. It took them a half hour to realize that he was actually sleeping and not simply _that still._ As quickly as they could, the Spartecs had started acting on their plans to remove the helmet. Fortunately for them, during that week they had gotten intel from Command, who had in turn gotten it from the black-sites on Palaven. Back during the Turian-Human war, the Hierarchy had gotten temporary possession of a SIGMA's corpse, and before the base that held it had been burned to the ground, they had figured out how to disassemble some parts of their armor, even if the Operative was still wearing it. This Human was wearing a different model, but it still held that their methods could work, especially since the armor had no power - they'd removed its power source before they'd imprisoned him, they knew well and good how powerful the Humans' 'power armor' was.

The Human had nearly _bit off the mandible_ of the man who successfully removed the helmet; from what Victus was aware of, the Spartec was still in medical, and would likely have teeth-mark scars for the rest of his life. Regardless of the resulting injury, they had gotten his helmet off, and what they'd discovered has astounded everyone.

It was a child.

They'd had to confirm it on the extranet, but it was, indeed, a Human child's face that stared back at them, loathingly, and covered in wet Turian blood and dried Human blood. It seemed impossible, but the child had the body of a fully-grown - perhaps even _over_grown - Human adult male, but his face was barely pubescent.

Ignoring - and again stating - how _impossible_ that should be, Victus found himself wondering with horror what they had stumbled across. What was this thing they had captured? Was it a machine? Was it an adult who simply looked like a child? Or was it truly a child? Each solution held questions of its own - if it were a machine, why did it look like a kid? If it were an adult, _how_ could it look like a kid? And if it were a child, how in the land of the Spirits could it have such a grown body, and an ill-grown face? - but they all revolved around the simple fact that, despite its obvious strength and skill, what they were dealing with wasn't a simple SIGMA operative.

Right?

Victus shook these thoughts away after his Commander ended up voicing the same shock he had voiced when the mask had been removed. Coinciding with the mask's removal had been the SIGMA's resortment to saying only his name and serial number, they got absolutely nothing else from it afterwards.

"This can't be physically possible… I've seen Human children, I've _killed_ one, and that _is _what they look like." The Commander said, dumbfoundedly, "but to have such a developed body…" He shook his head. "Impossible."

"Commander, had he not slaughtered my men I would think this is a joke being played." Adrien Victus said bluntly, pointing from the image on his omni-tool to the Human Prisoner of War in the other room. "That is not the face of a Human Man, far from it that is the face of a Human _boy. _Had he not _slaughtered_ my men, I would not believe it, even if I saw it with my own eyes!"

"You said that already." The Company Commander's own voice was slightly disturbed.

The two Turian Spartecs had expected most anything to come out of disrobing and disarming the Human. Victus had actually been ready to swear by the spirits of his very ancestors that they had been dealing with one of the 'Sapiens Mechs' he'd heard so many rumors about, whereas another Spartec not a part of his squad had expected some sort of bio-engineered super Human in the same vein as a SIGMA. The Company Commander had been expecting a veteran like they hadn't yet met, one that had fought through the Human-Turian war, the Mercenary Wars, and their Rebellion.

Everyone present had been completely unable to resist the double-take, and a few went so far as to widen their eyes or slacken their mandibles, when the removal of the Human's helmet had revealed a face so full of youth that Victus had been inspired to look onto the Extranet pictures of adolescent Human males and compare them with veteran adult Humans. The resemblances between the Human, who only referred to himself as 'John-S2-15', and a Human teenager of the age of fifteen were almost exact, save for the height and build: The 'kid' was seven and a half feet tall and looked like he was built like a Krogan.

"But _look _at him, sir!" Victus gestured to his omni-tool again, then at the Human, who was separated from them by three and a half inches of one-sided glass, and the thick stone walls of their fortress. "This cannot be a Human adult, there is no possible way he is of legal military age, even by _our_ standards!"

"But he will not reveal his age to us." The Commander mentioned off-handedly. "He already knows that by simply removing the helmet he's unwittingly divulged blacklisted secrets to us, he won't reveal anything else if he can help it." He reasoned, before he shook his head and ran a hand across his weary face. "Do we even know if he is a child? He has the body of an adult Human, I would venture to guess he may even be more physically developed than their SIGMAs..."

"That is the confusing part... Unless we get some blood to work with, we cannot know for sure." Victus continued speaking before the Commander could question his statement, "and whenever we try to go for blood or tissue samples he... Well... Bites."

The Commander stared at Victus, eyes wide and blinking, a bemused expression on his face, he hadn't expected that answer. "_Bites?"_

"Bites." The sergeant confirmed, "Three of our men are still in the medical ward with the scars to prove it."

The Commander was dumbfounded, "he has strength enough to _pierce our hides?!"_

"He's a Human, sir. A SIGMA at that. His savagery seemed to be augmented along with his muscular strength."

The Commander looked back into the interrogation room, his eyes now squinted shut as he thought hard.

"What are you thinking, sir?"

Several minutes passed by as the Company Commander was silently mulling over his thoughts. "We were made as a counter-terrorism unit." He said, "our first 'company' numbered in at only five. We were only ever used once before the Humans came. Then the Hierarchy knew it needed warriors of a different caliber... Warriors willing to do what was necessary in order to protect the Hierarchy."

Victus caught on, a revolted look growing in his eyes. "But... Torturing children?" He asked. "That is illegal in every civilized society… Even the _Terminus_ systems frown upon it."

The Commander grinned listlessly. "Apparently, it isn't as illegal as we _thought_ in the Systems Alliance." He said, "if he doesn't give us the information willingly, some ventures with Doctor Seldad should loosen his tongue."

Ignoring his own morals in this, Victus pressed on a different, more clear-cut method of reasoning. "Sir, consider for a moment that he is a child; if the Alliance caught even the slightest wind of this, it could start a _war."_

"Something tells me, _Lieutenant,_ that the Alliance won't even acknowledge this child's existence." The Commander emphasized, though he too had the weary look on his face that said he didn't at all like what he was about to sign off on doing.

For the Hierarchy and his citizens, right?

* * *

><p>"I will say nothing to you." The Human said slowly, automatically, as his head lolled about.<p>

Days had begun blurring together for John-S2-15, ever since his helmet had been removed, the passage of time had only really been marked by the time between beatings, during which he was given light medical treatment and pills that kept his body as it was, no nutrient malnutrition.

"We've been at this for days, Human. You will give out before I do, I can guarantee that." Said the Interrogator, as he stretched his talons. "What is your _age?!"_ He slammed his fist into John's chin.

"_John-S2-15."_ John said on auto-pilot, as his head whipped back and forth.

"_Age!"_ For all the patience the Interrogator had, it was wearing thin. "You Humans –" he slammed his fist onto John's knee, blood was drawn - "record your age as increments of a single solar rotation! Standardized by your Earth and its orbit around Sol I want your _age_!" He roared, slamming his fist onto John's nose.

The man seemed to be an expert at Human biology, every blow he blew was aimed directly at a place where it caused John exorbitant amounts of pain. The worst part for John was how his augmentations were working against him in this fact. They were designed to enhance his strengths and cover his weaknesses, but simple Human biology wouldn't be ignored, and therefore his enhanced genetics translated into enhanced pressure points. This is what the mechanical augmentations were supposed to cover, but John – unbeknownst to the Turian – had yet to receive those. Meaning that, until he worked out a way to escape, he was stuck feeling two to three times the pain a normal Human would feel when beaten in such a way, the worst part being that the Interrogator was asking him questions he didn't truly have the answer to, his last name, for instance, having been a fact he'd forgotten long ago, and his age, being a fact that he hadn't thought about in years.

"_John-S2- -"_

The Turian slammed his open hand into John's throat, killing his sentence as he was speaking it. John coughed violently as his windpipe was collapsed, after several seconds he could breathe again, but blood was rapidly traveling up his throat.

The Turian stood there for several moments, before he shook his head. "Commander, this is getting us nowhere. Physical pain does nothing to him." To prove his point, the Turian – talons ready – slashed at John's recently exposed chest, leaving two deep, long gashes that would no-doubt turn to scars when they healed. John, in response, scowled deeply in pain but said nothing, silently fuming that he hadn't been able to resist them tearing off his armor, and even his skin-suit. Though he would never admit it in his life, he was surprising _himself_ at how well he was holding up to torture, before he'd been deployed on Siler, he'd actually estimated he'd hold up to three days before he cracked in some way, shape, or form.

The entrance to John's room opened up, inviting the Turian to leave, and leaving John to his thoughts and his injuries. He knew for a fact the Alliance wasn't coming for him, not of their own volition, he had specifically told them to wait for his call. He knew he needed more information on this place, but the hazy state in which his mind was through the constant torture sessions was hindering these goals, and the fifteen minutes of exercise outside each day was proving difficult for him to get what he needed.

However, difficult didn't, in this equation, equal impossible, he was building a mental encyclopedia of this place, which he was tentatively calling 'Location Alpha'. He knew, from the snippets of conversation he'd heard, that he was the only prisoner of the mercenaries he was trapped by. Though, he was beginning to wonder if 'mercenaries' was the right word for what these 'Spartecs' were, as they seemed to operate on a military level, with the supplies and weapons to match. The only thing John couldn't find with these people was armor, all of them wore the kevlar-like clothing, with what John recognized as energy shield generators hooked into their belts. This suggested to John that they were some sort of new outfit, given the experimental technology not yet proven or ready for standard infantry.

Better yet was their foolish Lieutenant's actions the day John had woken up: He'd given John his gun. While the man had indeed removed his gauntlets, pauldrons and helmet, he hadn't removed his breastplate. Inside the breastplate was a standard set by John Doe S1: Spare parts for his pistol. It didn't at all matter what he needed - a spare slide, firing pin, trigger, whathaveyou, he had it, and a magazine to boot. All he needed was one single opportunity to make it to wherever they were holding his armor, and forty seconds to take apart the hidden compartment, retrieve the parts and the magazine, and then twenty five more seconds to take the gun apart and he'd have it up to standard in no time flat. Well, he'd also need the new cuffs to get taken off - they'd done away with the chains and had simply resolved for tried and true handcuffs, but that still meant his hands were completely immobilized.

_I just need... More information._ Was John's mantra, were the words that kept him going each day. He knew he had the supplies to escape, he just needed to gather them, the thing he was lacking was the information the Alliance needed on these people, because they were working with the Batarians, who were using Warp Tech, which meant the two had some sort of mutual partnership, meaning that they too could have the travel technology that could bring the Citadel to the Alliance's level, technologically.

_Just... How do I get it?_ His head still lolling back and forth, John scanned his room for the umpteenth time. The room was made of stone, so there was the possibility of tunneling out, which could work, given the lack of cameras in the room, and the lights-out-after X policy the base operated on. The problem with that was the guard they posted outside, they checked in like clockwork every hour, which meant that any escape plan or attempt to sneak out on John's end would be discovered quickly.

After a few minutes, John's eyes locked in on the toiletries in the room. It was a simple mirror, sink, and toilet combination. John knew something was relevant here, otherwise his instinct-prone, detail-oriented mind wouldn't have locked on to it.

_Wait..._ John got to his feet and stumbled over to the toilet. While his feet weren't bound together by omni-cuffs, his hands were, so his options for self-sanitation were limited. He peered into the toilet, then at the sink, and noticed two things.

One: The toilet had a removable top.

Two: The sink had exposed pipes running into the wall.

The gears started turning in John's head as he went back to his chair. This room may be unfit for nightly escapades, but a different room would provide different opportunities.

_I just need my hands... _John felt within him, looking for that familiar warmth that came with his biotics. _And more food. _He had certainly used his biotics during his battle against the Spartecs, but when he knew capture was inevitable, he limited his use so they would limit their suppression, his tactics worked, and they had no clue he was as powerful a biotic as he was. They knew indeed he had eezo-sensitive nodes, but they had no idea how powerful he was with his biotics.

* * *

><p>"<em>Commander, I have an update for you on John-S2-15's Gene Mapping."<em> Said a voice over the intercom.

The Company Commander nodded and activated the vid-screen. "What do you have?"

"You wanted me to look for signs of genetic or mechanical augmentations. We've found the former, but no traces of the latter." Said medic, "my theory is that he is, indeed, a SIGMA operative… Just a different kind."

"If he's a SIGMA, then how is he so young?" The Commander asked, "or does he simply look it?"

"No sir, his cells are indeed as young as his face suggests, but the augmentations given to him are what is - understandably - throwing you off. The Humans, essentially, forced the child's skeletal and muscle structure to grow. I don't know how they missed his face, or if it even was missed in the first place, but the fact remains that parts of him have been… If you'll forgive my terms - selectively aged. In other words, they gave him the body comparable to a young Krogan, but he still retains the aesthetic features of a Human child." He left out the fact that a good quarter of everything he was saying was guess work - he had good tools, but he wasn't anywhere near intelligent enough to dissect systemic genetic augmentations.

The Commander sat back in his chair, "this seems entirely too convoluted." He shook his chair, muttering about how simply impossible this should be. Some kind of law had to have been broken to get this, it _had_ to have been.

The Medic misunderstood him, "I'd need better tools and more personnel to even begin to understand how some of this works, sir." He lamented, "but the fact of it remains: No matter how old his body profile makes him, the thing we've captured is still a child."

The Commander sighed, "I can't make any promises." He said, leaning forward. "Keep doing what you're doing and learn what you can. Make sure all of the data is backed up, we'll fire it off to the Hierarchy when you've gotten everything you can." He nodded, and after the medic did the same, he cut the connection.

_Human… Child… SIGMA._ The pieces to the puzzle were there, but he was either missing some or the order was far too confusing to put them into place. _The Alliance has far too much of an opinion of themselves to do this. Does that mean they are merely projecting an image? Is there the Alliance we see, and then the Alliance that is? How could they abduct children to train them for war? Even __**we**_ _don't do that, that's barbarism only matched by the Krogan._ He felt tired, as he often did whenever he tried to make sense of Humans. _Whoever brought this idea up to them is a morally devoid… Sick… Twisted… Perhaps even __**evil**_ _person._

Unfortunately, the Commander's thoughts were cut short, as just after he got finished lamenting how morally backwards the Human had to be, their own morally ambiguous torturer – the self-proclaimed Doctor, Lieutenant Seldad – entered the room. The 'Doctor' was notorious for the results he got after sessions with his 'patients' ran as long as they did with the Human. The look on his face, however, told the Commander that he was in for disappointing news.

"Nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing." Said Seldad, "I've asked him the simplest questions of all, that is how you _begin."_ He explained, "and yet he tells me nothing... I've only seen dedication this solid in the Humans I treated during the Human-Turian war." He said, angrily, as he sat down. "I'm beginning to think I'm taking the wrong approach."

"You're beating him within an inch of his life, three times, each day." The Commander deadpanned, "that may be what he's trained to resist."

"That is why I'm considering the Forced Meld Device."

This considerably frightened the Commander, though not for the obvious reasons. "You do realize that in any possible event of an escape, he will reveal the existence of this device and the Hierarchy will suffer on two fronts." No one liked to admit it, but asides from the Humans, the Asari were indeed the only other power around that could possibly defeat them in a straight-up war. If they figured out they had something like this, war would quickly become inevitable.

Seldad leaned forward, "sir, the way _I_ see it, one month of his mind being forcibly probed and stimulated by that device will be exactly what we need to loosen him up a little. With the FMD, it's only a matter of time."

The Commander waited for several seconds, as he mulled it over in his mind. It was true, their MD would give them the results they needed, but it was only barely out of the prototype phase, several people still questioned whether or not it was lethal. Then take into consideration the repercussions of the SIGMA Child's escape, he would bring this to the Alliance, who would let it slip for the Asari. The Turians would be destroyed, sooner or later, it would happen. The Turian shook his head, "no." He stated firmly. "The last time a Turian made a rash, horribly uninformed decision, an alien empire revealed itself and dominated us in warfare. Request denied."

Seldad looked at the Commander blankly for a moment, his mandibles slack. "Permission to speak freely?"

"Denied. I need time to think."

"Alright, then." The Turian got to his feet, and gave a crisp – if, angry – salute, before he exited the room.

* * *

><p>"Guard."<p>

Nothing.

"Guard."

Nothing.

"Guard."

Nothing.

"Guard."

John had been slowly, methodically, and repeatedly saying that single word for an hour now. He stood only a few inches from the several inch thick, one-way window. He didn't know exactly where the guard was, but he knew he was standing in front of the door, and he could hear him. He also knew that he had the patience to do this for as long as he needed to, the only variable was whether or not the guard did too. John assumed he didn't - very few people could compare to how patient a SIGMA could be if he had to, an example came to mind that a SIGMA had broken the record for how long any known living being had lain completely still and immobile. The previous record had been an Asari Commando waiting for the perfect shot, she'd stayed completely still for six entire days, only having to move when her dehydrated body began betraying her in its desperate plea for water and even a little sustenance, the SIGMA had lasted thirteen days before he'd gotten the shot _he'd_ needed, and made it.

Yes, John could wait, he could wait as long as he needed to.

"Guard."

Nothing.

"Guard."

Nothing.

"Guard."

Still nothing.

John had spent hours formulating exactly how he would be reassigned a room, and when he'd decided his plan was solid, he'd begun it. All he needed to get it started was the guard to lose his patience. If nothing else, he would give the guard one thing: He did indeed have some modicum of patience. But he wouldn't last - John wouldn't let up. One of the both of them would eventually crack, and it wouldn't be John.

"Guard."

Nothing.

"Guard."

Nothing.

"Guard.

Nothing.

"Gua-"

"_SPIRITS, WHAT?!" _

Bingo.

The Turian on the other side of the wall finally gave in under the SIGMA's relentless assault, John hadn't even needed the speakers in the room to hear his deep, enraged, and deafeningly loud roar.

"I need use of my hands."

"_You called me constantly for over an hour for THAT?!"_ The Turian furiously, if exasperatedly, roared, "_I cannot do that, Human!"_

"Have you ever seen a Human's bowels explode?" John asked, his face straight and his tone blank. "There's a blockage and I need to unblock it. In order to do so I need use of my hands." John was secretly thankful they had only been 'feeding' him through food paste and nutrient pills, it helped his story, because there was no earthly way they could possibly even know he was lying to them.

There was silence for several minutes straight. John could clearly imagine a slack-mandibled Turian staring at the one-way mirror with a horrified expression on his face. "_Are... You..."_

"Do you want to find out?" John asked bluntly. "For the record, I problem against it, as it would solve the painful problem, but I do not know if you are willing to shove _your_ finger up my anus -"

"_You've got ten minutes!"_ The Turian said quickly, before John's cuffs deactivated, John silently wondered if the Turian was ruing the fact that he had no gag reflex.

John walked over to the toilet, in all honesty he had no desire to use it, he had no need either. Nutrient paste was just that - paste; it made no waste to be excreted from his bowels, and the only waste he currently possessed was from the meager meal aboard the _Sol's Fury. _ What he had to do with alien toilet, however, was put on a show. John bent down and wrapped his arms around its base, and gave a test pull, it was fastened into the ground, but his enhanced muscles would make this easy, all that he needed to do was apply a little effort.

With a loud groan, slowly building up into what John had to put effort into sounding like a painful shout, John began wrenching the toilet from the ground. With a few seconds of effort, he got the desired effect, and it was successfully broken off of the ground. Immediately water and the bluish-white alien sewage began spewing forth from the pipes, John dropped the toilet and his ragged prisoner-standard pants just as his omni-cuffs reactivated, slammed together with a loud magnetic clang and immobilized his hands, and the door opened.

In came the Guard, his rifle raised, but almost instantly after he saw the state in which John was in, he almost stumbled over himself, eyes wide, mandibles hanging, jaw slack.

"I told you I had a blockage." John said innocently, tone still even and face still blank.

"I..." The Turian looked from John to the small geyser of water coming out from the exposed pipes, and activated his omni-tool. "Security... Maintenance..." He looked at John, "and medical to holding cell."

_Now, for step two._ Thought the SIGMA, barely even registering the continued look of pure horror on the Turian's hooded face.


	27. Interlude

_A/N:_

_Without further ado, we're off!_

* * *

><p>Interlude<p>

* * *

><p><em>Interlude(N.): <em>

_An Intervening Period of Time_

* * *

><p>"If you so much as miss one target I will skin your tail and pour an entire stock of Reesian salt upon it." Threatened Jorban Sal'Naa, as he watched a BattleVector hopeful of the ripe young age of one hundred bind his eyes with a thick blindfold.<p>

The Oather in question had dark green scales and brown flesh, and his lack of experience shown almost painfully in the light tone of his voice. "Yes, Lancemen!" The child - for that was what all BattleVector Oathers were, _children;_ unless they passed their trials, even seniors upwards of six hundred would become but children if they took the oath - lacked not in confidence, but _experience._ He had no scars to speak of, his muscles were woefully underdeveloped, and his eyes lacked the killer instinct nine out of every ten Oathers had. Jorban had long ago decided that this one had either been enraptured by the sight of a BattleVector in combat, or had been swindled by a priest.

"Stop speaking and _load your cursed weapon!"_ Jorban roared deafeningly, causing the Oather to scramble for the disassembled Energy Lance on the table in front of him. The dull-scaled BattleVector snorted derisively as the blinded Oather nearly put the battery where the laser went. If the Dregs in this very facility broke free, this child would be among the first to die, unless his master beat him into shape.

Soon, the dark-scaled Oather had the laser rifle assembled and was on his feet, though when he turned to face the wall upon which he'd hung his earmuffs, he had made the damnable mistake of forgetting to curl his tail around his gut. Jorban caught this mistake instantly and slammed his armored boot upon the man's tail, shattering the bone into several painful shards that almost immediately started cutting in to his flesh.

"Your enemies will not stop at _breaking_ your tail if you leave it hanging around on the battlefield! They will shoot it off, and where will you be _then?!"_ Jorban demanded as the Oather suppressed a whimper of pain and curled the tail around his gut, and then proceeded to put the earmuffs on his head, thankful for the silence it gave him.

The silence lasted all of three seconds, before Jorban's voice was blasted into the earmuffs' speakers, which had been placed there an hour earlier without the Oather's notice. _"Your equipment will not always function as you expect it, whelp!"_ The battle-born man warned him, _"the silence you expected has now been stolen from you because you failed to check it before donning it! Now destroy your targets, or so help me I will feed you to the Dreg Queen!"_ If there was one thing he could simultaneously enjoy and despise utterly, it was training the Oathers; he loved it because it reminded him of his own training days, the proudest days of his life, the first days he'd ever had warm food, a roof over his head, and a family that wasn't constantly involved in criminal exploits, but he despised it because it reminded him of his own training days - when he was weak beyond understanding and could barely tell the difference between the stock of a rifle and its barrel.

The Oather managed to suppress his horror at Jorban's sudden booming presence in his very mind, he inhaled deeply through his nose and smelled the paint adorned on the targets. He whipped around one hundred and eighty degrees and shouldered his Energy Lance, he took a moment to aim it - and was admonished for his lack of speed - and then pulled the trigger. The first target was lit ablaze, a bright white circle the only way of telling where the laser would cut and burn, not that the Oather could see it anyways. The Oather snapped to the right and fired again, then to the left and fired a third time, but on the fourth one, he made a dire, some may think unholy, mistake.

The invisible beam of righteous, hellish fury missed the target entirely and began burning the wall to slag. The Oather had no idea what he'd done and snapped to the fifth target, which he hit in the stomach and not the face. He brought the rifle to alert-carry and waited a moment, before he placed it on the table to his left and removed his effects - his scales paled in abject horror as he realized what he'd done.

"Oh... You've done it now, whelp." Jorban said deeply, as he drew a knife from its place in the steel wall.

Before he could slam it into the scales of the Oather, however, a fellow BattleVector entered the room, smelling almost instantly the tense air and the intent to kill emanating from Jorban. The BattleVector, who was adorned in full armor including her helmet, looked from Jorban, to the Oather, to the targets the latter had missed. She nodded in understanding, "I apologize, Lanceman, but you are wanted."

"By whom?" Jorban hissed, dragging an extended claw along the tip of the blade, he noticed that the Oather was trying desperately not to wet himself, as he didn't at all know if Jorban was going to make do on his threat. "I am currently filling in for trainer Bracknell." He elaborated.

"It is the Praetorian himself, Lanceman." Said the BattleVector, "a shuttle is being held up in your absence."

That visibly gave Jorban pause, "a shuttle? To where?"

"Hoomanisire."

Jorban blinked both eyelids, Hoomanisire? The fourth planet? Private shuttles to that world were all but unheard of, usually even the Praetorian worked his schedule around the bi-monthly shuttle departures, that he had one summoned and prepared _now_ meant that this was a dire situation. "Can you take over?" He asked, nodding at the Oather, who finally did wet himself as he realized he wasn't escaping this.

"I can." The BattleVector took Jorban's knife as Jorban passed her, and just a few moments after the door closed, blood-curdling screeches could be heard as the BattleVector forced the Oather to the ground with her foot and began the meticulous process of cutting off the scales and skin of his tail, inch by painful inch.

_It will grow back._ Jorban thought as he walked through the bright, stony training facility. _He must learn._ He made a mental note to send an e-mail to Bracknell, the trainer would understand of course, but he still knew that the ancient man would be rather annoyed that he'd skipped out on him. Jorban shrugged to himself, _serves him for succumbing to weakness and getting sick._ He thought ruefully, stepping into the elevator and hitting the button for the ground-floor.

BattleVector training facilities were, as a custom, always underground. To be able to protect the world, the ancient Vectors had said, one must be buried and trained underneath it. The largest training facilities - which this one certainly was not - stretched dozens, if not hundreds of kilometers under the surface of the planet, some even having their own magmafields for an in-house First Trial. Ironically, and likely born by the wrath of the Hoomanisire, the controlled environments of the in-house Magmafields were far deadlier than the ones on the surface of Saltor, likely because these ones were the only breeding grounds in which Dregs were allowed to roam - somewhat - free.

Thinking of the Dregs was somewhat coincidental for Jorban, as the elevator ascended past the thirty second level as he did so. While this certainly was not the temple that contained it, the one and only temple to have not fallen during the Dreg War two thousand years ago contained within it a Dreg Queen on its thirty second level. It wasn't symbolic at all, but thinking of the number reminded Jorban of the first time he'd drawn Dreg blood, during an unintended outbreak in a city around Saltor's southern pole. The bug-like monsters had haunted Jorban's nightmares for decades, with their massive eyes, tentacle-like protrusions and multiple, pointed legs, they were somewhat uniquely suited to killing _anything,_ and a Saltorian who was too young to have joined the Tyyrahn was uniquely suited to die at their hands specifically.

Jorban shook his head, thinking instead on what the _Praetorian_ could possibly want with him. Praetorian Jun Mun'Sid was, as were all Praetorians throughout history, the single most powerful living Saltorian in existence. The legends said that he had saved his predecessor by grabbing a bisnatch by the tusks and ripping it in half, _lengthwise._ Merely stopping a charging bisnatch was something to behold, but to halt it wholesale and then tear it in half was something of legend.

_It might be because of that fallen void-watcher..._ That night mere weeks ago had brought him and his gun-brothers no end of trouble. Nearly everyone who was allowed to study it had gotten the very same idea as he - it wasn't Saltorian, nor did it share any of the godlike characteristics of Hoomanisirian gifts. It was _alien,_ and that fact alone had terrified a great many Saltorians who held a large position of power. Was it a sign from the gods? Were they to be tried again, soon? Or was there another species, lost as they were, and searching for their brothers and sisters? Were they going to be _given_ a chance to ascend to the stars to search for the gods? Or could it be that a war, worse than the Dregs and worse than the ceaseless insurrection, was soon to come to their homes?

Jorban had assumed the lattermost since day one, he was convinced that if there was another race out there, they would - with their universal technological advantage - be far more enraged at being abandoned than the Saltorians could have ever been. If they came to Saltor to meet their abandoned brothers and sisters, the result would be death to the entire species. Jorban had never been more conscious of the pistol strapped to his hip, and wondered if the bullets it fired - each of which which were almost as big as his thumb - would even _scratch_ alien scales.

The elevator slowed to a halt and let Jorban out on the ground floor. Jorban exited it and took a moment to gaze about the main floor; the elevator came to a halt and opened up in the center of the entire complex, both for strategic purposes and so Oathers could be in awe as they took a cinematic ride down to what would very likely be their deaths. The result was, whenever someone exited the lift, they immediately saw the ground - some may say 'grand' - floor in all of its simplistic beauty. The teachings of the Hoomanisire were almost painfully direct when it came to architecture - function over fashion, make sure it works and works well before aesthetic beauty even entered the picture. Resulting from that, the floors were a uniformly tiled stone, with a blood-splatter red on their surface, the walls were a gray stone supported by steel support beams, and the ceiling had a great spiderweb of steel beams crisscrossing about it to make certain that, if it ever did collapse, only a small bit would. By way of furniture and other such things that a building would need to be a building, one saw very little in the main room, there was the main desk several feet from the entrance, at which the BattleVectors who had been crippled were allowed to continue to serve and wear the title, and all along the walls were doors leading to rooms of various use and paintings of historical and societal importance. Each BattleVector temple had at least one unique piece to them, and the one Jorban had found himself in today could count itself unique even among uniquity, as it had one of the few remaining, pristine _statues_ that had survived the Golden Age of the Hoomanisire.

Almost dictated by forces unseen, Jorban found himself strolling towards it, as there were no Priests lounging about, looking as if they were waiting for him. The statue's base stood at five feet - just a few feet shorter than an average male - and had written upon it words straight from the tongue of the Hoomanisire itself. There were an infuriatingly small number of people who could _speak_ the Hoomanisirian language, let alone write and read its divine script, and as such the words were lost on the Saltorian, but the effect was not, for one need only look at the statue to garner its meaning. The god towered over his creations by standing its twelve foot frame upon the base of the statue, its stone robes billowed in an unseen, ancient wind, its skin - for it had no scales whatsoever - rippled as the muscles underneath it tried desperately to break free, its hair followed the direction of the billowing robes, and its face - its _beautiful _face - spoke of unending kindness, though hidden behind it was an endless capacity for even the harshest of judgements. It cradled in one hand a book, which had written upon _it_ more letters of undecipherable origin and meaning, and with its other hand it pointed to the sky, beckoning its creations to set aside their differences and join them among the stars. It was an object most holy, and the ancient tales said that many thousands of BattleVectors had died just so the Dregs couldn't destroy it in the war long passed.

"Jorban Sal'Naa." Came a voice to the BattleVector's right. Jorban turned to the voice and beheld a priest garbed in robes similar to the statue he'd been admiring, he nodded in greeting and the priest spoke again, "every moment you spend in awe of the gods is a moment we waste in our pursuit of them. Come." He said, beckoning the veteran BattleVector to follow him out of the temple.

Jorban followed him, "pursuit? What do you mean Father?" Ever since the start of the space-age, 'The Pursuit' was the goal that always stayed out of reach of the Saltorians, their all-consuming goal to break free of the confines of their solar system and walk among the ancient pathways of the gods, to follow the path that had been set for them so long ago.

"You were there, you tell me." Said the priest.

Jorban blinked, "the void-watcher?" He guessed correctly.

"Indeed. But I cannot reveal anything else to you, not until we are on the shuttle."

Getting the hint, the armored BattleVector followed the robed priest out of the only surface-level floor in the temple. They stepped through massive the cave-opening, which itself _looked_ like it had no doors, but in reality the building-sized steel doors were simple hidden inside the face of the mountain they were exiting, if need be, the doors could seal shut in less than ten seconds, and nothing save for their god himself could get in, or out; some of the more blasphemous people believed that _even _the Hoomanisire himself couldn't pierce those doors, they were in such a way that they could resist even several direct nuclear blasts.

Exiting their temple, they were greeted by a suitably bizarre sight. Usually, space-shuttles had dedicated launch and landing sights, because their engines produced a great deal of heat and smoke, but here was a space shuttle, seated atop an aerial vehicle.

Jorban itched his scarred scales, "I have heard of this before… Assisted launching. I did not know we had the technology…" He said, in awe.

"There are many things the Praetorian keeps for himself that he delays the public seeing." The priest explained, "assisted launching is just one of those things."

"Why would we hide things from our people?" Jorban inquired, as they walked through the typically hot Saltorian air towards the massive airplane. "Would not a device like this help us in our great quest?"

"You would think that it would. And we tried. It did not." Said the Priest, "the gods created light to show us the limits of conventional machinery. We cannot truly begin our quest until we learn how to travel like they do…. Faster than light itself."

They entered the airplane and ascended a ladder into the space shuttle, within which were two other BattleVectors, both of whom Jorban recognized instantly. "Syn, Heris, Brothers." He reached forward and clasped arms with each of his gun-brothers in turn, he hadn't seen either of them since the downed satellite.

Syn cleared his throat, "Jorban… Compose yourself." He nodded behind the dull-scaled, suddenly humbles Saltorian, who turned and saw who stood tall behind him.

The Praetorian, the single most powerful Saltorian alive, Jun Mun'Sid. Jorban leapt to attention, and clasped his fist over his hearts. "Lord Praetorian." He managed not to stutter out, "I apologize for my outburst." He swallowed thickly, "please, forgive me."

The nine foot tall Praetorian shook his head, and for a moment Jorban thought his hearts would be burned out of his chest with the Praetorian's energy pistol. The Praetorian, however, chuckled on his second shake, his mouth curling into a wide grin. "It is fine, Lanceman. Sit, we will be launching -" The shuttle shook under their feet, as the assisted launcher took off. "Now." He was the only one of the three of them to stay firmly on his feet. "Though I see it has been a long time since you've all left the planet… These days, I seem to be in a shuttle more than I am on the battlefield." He nodded to the seats that assembled themselves out of the floorboards. "Now, tell me, what have you heard about the void watcher?"

Syn cleared his throat, as he sat upon his unfolded and full-formed chair. On older shuttle-models, the chairs were built into the vehicle, like airplanes, but on the newer models, the floor-boards could separate like plates and the compressed, cube-shaped chairs grew out of, and unfolded from, the floor. Despite how rigid they looked, they were surprisingly comfortable. "Precious little, Lord-Praetorian." He said, "we knew more when we were fighting for it, than we know now."

The Praetorian nodded, looking a lot smaller and less intimidating now than when he was standing at full height. However, his presence still managed to take up most of the room. "Then I shall tell you what we have learned these last weeks. The void-watcher that fell that night was of non-Saltorian origin. It is made of materials that do not exist on our indexed list. It is a machine of alien origin. What you have suspected is true, we are not the only ones in the universe on a great journey to find the ancient gods."

Jorban nodded slowly, "this does not sound like the joyous news it should be."

"You know of our history, and you know of the history of the gods. The ancient scriptures say that the lands they travelled were all violent, all horrifying, all war-torn, and ours was no different. The only difference between ours, and the peoples they pacified, was that the righteous Hoomanisire spared us pacification, and taught us the ways of peace and education. So just think, out among the stars, the very lands upon which the gods themselves once walked… Now walks a race they once pacified, and then left as they left us… A race that did not learn the ancient lessons, but stole and savaged the ancient gifts." He said, solemnly. "And they have been watching us, and the only reason we know is because an asteroid ripped through our solar system, and its gravitational pull affected their void-watcher."

"So what are we to do? Are they coming?" Heris asked, his light voice providing stark contrast to the low tones of the Praetorian.

"We do not know… But this machine has provided us the means with which to find out." He explained, "while it itself shares not the design conventions of Hoomanisirian technology, our men are taking it apart and learning the ways with which to reverse engineer and study alien technology. We hope to apply these lessons to the temple we found on Planet Hoomanisire." Said the Praetorian, "and yes, we did indeed find a temple. Many years ago, our miners discovered the ancient temple, and we used blessed materials to break into it, and we have been slowly opening it up to us." He paused, "it is… Magnificent. Larger than the Temple of the Hoomanisire on Innsua, by a factor of three, and it is larger still, for there are lower reaches we have yet to breach, and further doors we have yet to open. It still has power, and one of the rooms we have found…" He paused, a smile playing on his religious features. "We believe it to be a communicator. From the ancient texts in the Temple on Saltor, it fits the description. All we must do is provide it with power and apply the lessons we have learned from the void-watcher. We may be on the precipice of _finding the gods._

"Imagine what we can do with this opportunity. We can show the gods all that which we have learned… We can win back their favor." The Praetorian's voice shook with glee. "We can be the ones to usher forth a second age of the Hoomanisire."

The shuttle went silent, as the plane climbed through the atmosphere and rapidly reached the point from which the shuttle would launch.

"So… Why have you brought us?" Jorban asked.

"The chaotic ones. Word has spread like wildfire amongst them, and they have reached the same conclusions as us. They have very few on Planet Hoomanisire, but we have word that they are gathering up all of their supporters for a single, explosive attack on the new temple, so they can claim it for themselves. We cannot let that happen… So we are bringing our best BattleVectors from Saltor and its moons, and transporting them directly to the new temple's landing strip." He explained.

Jorban's jaw and the tail wrapped around his midsection both went slack, his many razor-sharp teeth practically itched for the flesh of his enemies, as he realized what his Praetorian was saying. They were going to war, on the planet that knew only peace. He felt the itch in his scales again, the one that had preceded the void-watcher. Things would never again be the same, the four-centuries old, dull-scaled Saltorian knew it.

* * *

><p>The first trip to planet Hoomanisire, ever<em>,<em> in all of recorded history, had taken upwards of eight months; the crew wouldn't have survived without hibernation technology. Since then, the technology became better, and the trips got faster, to the point where it took just a few weeks to travel the two hundred million miles between the two planets with life. With propulsion and fuel-conservation technology as advanced as it was these days, it was actually more economic to simply lay on the accelerator until the vessel got to five percent of the speed of light. It kept up that velocity for a few days, before turning around and bleeding off ninety eight percent of it, the rest was bled off in the descent into the atmosphere.

Normal procedure was to descend into the designated orbital-landing zones, as simply landing willy-nilly on any part of the planet one desired was impossibly dangerous, and invariably got people hurt, or killed. Today, however, the procedure was overlooked by the only man alive who had the authority to do so, and the shuttle came hurtling through the atmosphere towards a landing zone made specifically around the largely excavated Hoomanisirian Temple. The landing was a bit rougher than usual, but there was no damage to the shuttle and no one died, so after a few minutes as the shuttle was shut down and cooled off, the BattleVectors and the Priests chosen by the Praetorian, and the Praetorian himself, exited the shuttle.

"I shall give the each of you one hour to familiarize yourself with our new temple, after which I will expect to see you at the armory we are constructing for further orders. This is the line we are drawing in the sand, no one shall cross it." He said, looking over the massive plateau, and its planet's characteristically silvery dirt and deep gray rocks. His scarred face was stoic as thoughts ran through his centuries-old mind, he sighed once, and turned back to the three assembled BattleVectors. "Understood?"

The three jumped to a salute and clenched their hands over their hearts. "Yes, lord Praetorian!" They three declared, before they were released from his presence.

Though anyone else, on any other day, would have scrambled over each other in their attempt to make a mad-dash for the new, impossibly valuable religious artifact that was a _second_ Temple of the Hoomanisire, the three BattleVectors walked with grace and tranquility, though they each had a quickened pace - religion to a Saltorian was like killing to a Dreg, they valued it above all else, even integrity. In ten minutes, they descended the spiralling roads that led to the primary entrance to the ancient temple. Originally, the miners had had to used blessed thermite to get in, but as excavation efforts went on, they found the true entrance to the massive temple.

Walking inside, Jorban felt a sense of awe, and being in the place where his ancestors and his gods once stood made him feel impossibly tiny. With lights donated by Saltorian technology, the massive foyer wasn't as well-lit as it would have been in its past, but it was lit enough for Jorell to see the history and the sanctity of the place, as well as feel it with every step and breathe it in with every lungful. Like a majority of Hoomanisirian artifacts, the entrance hall was silver, its gleam had dulled with age, but its magnificence hadn't decreased at all. The walls stretched up and curved beautifully, seamlessly into the ceiling, as if the entire place had been made of one single piece of metal.

Lining the walls were mind-bogglingly intricate reliefs, simple line-drawings that created spiralling patterns that all diverged and separated outwards to create massive pictures and illustrations of Hoomanisirian concepts and artwork. They all extended into the ceiling, where they became more sparse, representing the stars above everyone's heads, but at the center of the ceiling, they all dropped - going from small depressions in the wall to wire-thin silver extensions from the ceiling, which all converged at a single point: The head of a massive, towering silver statue.

"_My gods…"_ Said Heris as the three of them came to a stunned halt in front of the enormous statue.

The enormous statue was made of the everlasting Hoomanisirian Steel, and depicted a kind, gentle god wearing flowing robes. His skin was smooth and flawless, and his hairy face was curled into a warm smile as, its arms extended and its five-fingered hands opened, it welcomed all who stepped into its temple. Its hair flowed down its head as freely as the rigid silver statue could be allowed to depict, and its eyes were affixed to a subject that no mortal alive could ever name.

Jorban was the first to fall to his knees, eyes slowly leaking tears as they were graced by the beauty and the reality of where he was and what it meant for his people. Here he sat, in the eons-old temple of his people's gods, within which lay the very key to ascending to the stars to travel among them. Syn slowly fell too, his own eyes tearing up as he realized that, perhaps for the first time in his life, he wouldn't simply be fighting merely for peace, but he would be fighting for the glory and the honor of his _god._ There truly was not a better honor, and there could not possibly be a greater way to die, if it was to be his time. Soon, even Heris fell, and the three of them clenched their hands above their hearts and bowed their heads in humility and in respect.

They sat there for a time, before the time came that they had to stand, and with that time's arrival came the first word they would say in the temple, the one and only holy word that every Saltorian knew by heart. A declaration of faith to the very gods they worshipped, a legendary battle-cry that the ancient Saltorians shouted in their misguided attempts at killing their way back into glory, the single most powerful word in the Saltorian vocabulary.

"_Amen."_

* * *

><p><em>AN:_

_I promise you all, there is definitely a point to these little 'intermission' chapters._

_'Till next time!_

_-PFB_


	28. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

* * *

><p>"<em>If the prisoner is beaten, it is an arrogant expression of fear."<em>

― _**Ghassan Kanafani**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>July 4th<strong>_ _**, 2216**_

* * *

><p>The atmosphere aboard the lone cruiser, heartily drifting through space had at once been light, almost celebratory, as the men aboard the <em>Hirun<em> were going to – for the first time in several months at the very least – go home, to Palaven, to their families. The day had begun routinely, the Captain made his rounds and then retreated to his quarters to prepare his reports. Of course, everything changed almost immediately after they had to make the dreaded – but necessary – trek through the regions of space the Alliance called their 'Border Worlds', those few worlds that stood between the Alliance's mid and inner colonies and the Citadel. Unfortunately, now the atmosphere was tense and frantic, unimaginably bad news had just been relayed to the ship's Captain.

"What do you _mean_ our engines have failed?" The Captain of the _Hirun_ demanded, he would not have believed the engineer had he not seen the lights flicker and felt the jolt that came from rapid, unprepared exit of FTL flight.

"Sir... I mean just that." Guiltily said the Head Engineer, "the drive core simply... _Stopped."_ He gestured to the enormous ball of refined element zero, resting behind multiple radiation shields and blast doors. "We cannot start it any more, and I don't need to explain that our thrusters rely upon it to give us FTL Flight... Without it we're just a projectile surfing through space."

"How?" The Captain demanded, his quiet tone managing to deafen the ship worse than if he'd been screaming in frustrated rage. "_How_ could this happen? Didn't the last crew perform their checks? Didn't we?" He was, understandably, livid, there were few solutions to a dead drive core when one was floating in the middle of nowhere, space, fewer when one wasn't necessarily legally flying through foreign territory.

"We cannot ascertain... The best we can guess came when we discovered some faulty plating on the starboard engine, it must have exposed the drive core and some of the Eezo got shaved off during decompression." The Engineer explained, "now there is simply too little to hit faster than light speeds."

"Can we fix it?" The Captain almost begged, "can we do anything at all?" Their armory wasn't as stocked as it would be on a Human ship, but it had enough weapons that, perhaps, if they disassembled all of them, they might be able to salvage enough eezo to bring their core back up to snuff, but the engineer would know better, and had likely already considered such an option.

There was a palpable silence. "Sir... Not without help." The engineer finally sighed, defeatedly, after considering everything he knew was possible with their given resources.

The Captain realized what the Engineer was alluding to, he took one step back and leaned upon the nearest bulkhead, stress just _oozing _off of him. "You want us to call out a distress call... In Human territory."

"Sir -"

"You realize that doing so puts everyone on the ship at risk." He interrupted, "that their damned Artificial Intelligences will be able to _sense_ the faults in our stories... That they will instantly become suspicious if we stick to the mercenary story..."

"Sir... We're not doing anything _illegal..._"

"The Alliance has all but outlawed foreign mercenary agencies in their territory. The only ones _here_ that actually manage to stay afloat under their heavy regulations are their Blue Suns." The Alliance's relationship with any mercenary organization anywhere was tense at the absolute best, even their own domestic 'Private Security Firms' faced heavy regulations, and they weren't the organizations stupid enough to try anything war-like.

The Head Engineer paused a moment, "sir, calculations say that if we don't get this thing fixed... It will take somewhere in the vicinity of several tens of thousands of years to get to the next relay. We'll follow your orders, sir, but..."

The Captain sighed, deeply. "I want everyone ready for battle." He stated, "send out the distress call _only_ when the ship is locked down tighter than an Asari Priest's hips."

The Engineer suppressed a chuckle out of professionalism, "yes, sir."

* * *

><p>"I mean, it's not like we're going to <em>find<em> anything out here!" Petty Officer Dolf Bryant said, exasperatedly, as he enjoyed a glass of water in the lounge and let his hat hang on his uniformed knee. "The Batarians launched _one_ attack on an inner colony, and all of a sudden every single relay colony needs every ship not on the front lines." He shook his head and grunted.

"Well, yeah, but that flotilla of Mock Up ships they hit us with? Took down _ten_ boats before they got the eff out of dodge... Higher Up doesn't want that happening again." The Seaman he was speaking to mentioned.

"But do you _really_ think they'll try to hit us again, when they're down to one last planet?" Bryant asked of the Seamen, "in three months we've taken down _five_ planets, each one with Human slaves... They've only got one left, and we're damn close to taking that one too!"

"But I heard they've got those... Hunters? Those Hunters swarming on the planet..." The Seamen said, "it's going to be a hard fought -" He was cut off by the sound of the AI broadcasting through the ship.

"_All hands, General Quarters. All hands, General Quarters."_ All pretense was dropped as everyone followed the orders of the SynthHuman, several lagged behind as they assumed it was a drill, but that notion was dispelled when they passed by one window on the port side of the ship.

"Holy shit, that's a Turian cruiser!" Someone called out.

Another soon confirmed it, "god _damn,_ you're right!"

True to form, there was a Turian Cruiser several kilometers out from the ship, a bright silver, aerodynamic vessel breaking the black and white nothingness that was space. It seemed almost broken, somehow, as there were no lights on on the outside.

"What's a Turian Cruiser doing in Alliance Space?" Someone demanded.

"_Hey, General Quarters, move!" _An Officer came thundering through the hallway, obviously having been ordered somewhere specific by someone important.

The Captain of the Alliance Destroyer, the SSV _Theodore Logan,_ one Hannah Shepard, was busy barking orders to her crew while simultaneously listening to a report from the ship's AI, one that had modeled itself after a World War 3 war-hero, Sergei Minst.

Shepard had no idea what the cruiser – which the AI had, after some prying, discovered with Turian tech, but a Mercenary IFF – was doing in Alliance space. Theories flew threw her mind about another set of Mercenary Wars, or perhaps a second Human-Turian war. She hoped her AI could deliver hope against those sentiments, but her hope was unfounded as the AI made its report.

"_Captain, it seems that the warship is making every attempt to fly mercenary colors." _Sergei informed her, "_but it is, in fact, a Hierarchy warship. Its emergency broadcast is telling of Drive Core failure and a need for towing, otherwise they shall be stranded in space."_

"If they're flying mercenary colors, how do we know they're Turian?" Shepard asked, brushing some errant red hair behind her ear, finally calming herself down, now that the primary gunnery stations had reported the broadside cannons were charged and ready for fire.

"_Turian Military broadcasts use a unique double encryption to protect against intruders. I detected another, lower-band broadcast above what we had detected upon exit-warp."_ The AI explained, "_it seems that, while they were calling for anyone nearby for help... ET was also phoning home."_

"Should we expect hostilities?"

"_Negative, ma'am."_ The AI's avatar shook its head, and then brought up a hologram of the ship in question. "_Its drive core is offline, so the best they can do is launch torpedoes and attempt to hit us with the point-defense turrets... Their main cannon is completely offline, totally unusable."_

Shepard sighed, and lowered her head onto her hand. If she left the ship there and they got help from the Hierarchy, the costs would be too many to count. If she helped the ship and it proved to be hostile, she could lose many marines. However if she simply shot the ship down, the Alliance may revoke any _possible_ seat upon the much-talked-about Captain's chair for the new Carrier they were constructing, the _Einstein._

Shepard brushed her dark red hair back behind her ear and sat up. "Open channels to the 'Hirun', tell them we're here to help and to be ready for a boarding."

"_At once, Captain."_

* * *

><p>"Captain... The Alliance is here." A communications officer reported solemnly, as the vid-screen lowered in front of the Captain. "They're hailing us."<p>

"On screen."

The vid-screen revealed a non-descript image, the symbol of the Alliance Navy. It had three of their 'wet' ships sailing beneath the mighty Dreadnought, the 'Beautiful Annihilation', they called it.

"_This is the Human Systems Alliance Navy."_ Came the voice of their ship's AI, "_independent vessel 'Hirun', we are responding to your distress call. Heave-to and prepare to be boarded."_

The Captain made a quick order for three Spartecs to be ready, armed, at the airlock and sent his response, before he himself made for the airlock. Ten minutes passed by in tentative silence, the small ovular portal to the Void looked as cold as the silvery steel it was made from. Through one click and a small jolt of the ship, the warm air of the Hirun engaged in an epic battle with the chilled air of the Alliance Vessel, the 'Theodore Logan'.

The airlock opened up and presented a squad of five Alliance Marines, all armed. Fortunately for the Spartecs none of them were aiming their rifles at them, so they had that going for them. After the Marines entered and decided the place was safe, an Officer entered the ship, he wore the fatigues of an Alliance naval-man.

The Captain's comm buzzed. "_Captain, we've got a priority one from the base -"_

"Not now." The Captain whispered, before he nodded, straight-faced to the Human. "Greetings... I am captain Teridol Shte of the Hirun."

"Greetings, Captain." The Human said, politely, with a nod.

"_Captain, you need to -"_

"Not now!" The Captain reached up to switch off his communicator, but heard the words before he clicked it off.

"_They said the Prisoner escaped! They cannot find him!"_ Click went the communicator.

"Is something wrong, Captain?" The Human asked, inclining his head in the universal sign of interested confusion.

"Just an update on the engines... I pray that is why you are here?"

The Human nodded, each action lifting tons of stress from the Captain. "We are... When we finish our patrol here in this system we would gladly be willing to tow you to the nearest colony so you can conduct repairs." He said, "we were just hoping you could tell us what you were doing here... So far from Council territory." His tone held the kindest inflection of suspicion, to the point where the Turian almost didn't detect the naturally confrontational human vocal tendencies.

"Honestly, sir... We were wondering the same thing." The Captain said, playing the 'nonchalant' card. "We were hired several days ago, out of the blue, to go in and pick up some businessman's package on some Alliance world... You call it Roof?" He said, before he waved his hand, "now, here we are, heading back to Illium, when our engines cut off." He said, shaking his head.

"Quite unfortunate... What was in the package, if I may ask?" The Officer inquired.

"Err... The phrase the client used to answer it was 'don't ask, don't tell.'..." The Captain missed the suppressed sniggering of one of the Marines in the back.

"I see..." The Officer said, "before we'll let you land, we'll have to scan this package, make sure it isn't some sort of WMD… It's standard protocol, you see." The man explained kindly.

"Of course, captain."

The Human blinked, "oh no, I'm a lieutenant." The Officer shook his head and chuckled lightly, with a smile, his watch lighting up momentarily as a message was relayed to him over his communicator, it was with a supreme effort of will that he didn't react in any other way than a brief, subtle widening of his eyes. "But, I think that's everything we need, I'll head back and inform the captain, we'll have a few marines come in with the gear we need to examine this package." The Turian's eyes narrowed slightly, something had changed, the Human was eager to leave. "Sound good?"

The Captain couldn't rightly say _no,_ so he told the Human that he'd laid forth acceptable terms, but surreptitiously signaled his men - the entire ship was in the Turian equivalent of General Quarters, and everyone aboard was prepared to fight, but this feeling he got after hearing the Human speak his piece, it was now less being _prepared_ to fight, and more being _ready._ For a few seconds, as the Human went through the tunnel connecting the two ships, everything was calm. The Captain's last thoughts, before an anti-material round turned his head into paste, were that this calm was similar to what the Humans called the 'calm before the storm'. The Human Lieutenant was ushered into the Human ship as the Marines opened fire and almost immediately had all of the Spartecs suppressed and immobile.

"_Contact front!"_ A Spartec called from behind a raised plate on the deck, before he leaned out from the side and fired down the hall. The Spartec weaponry, designed specifically to counter human defenses, shattered the Marines' shields in two shots and destroyed his helmet in a spray of blood and gore with the third shot. "_Keep them in the tunnel!" _He called out as the Spartecs mounted their defense, brief bursts of accurate fire breaking the constant rumble of the Human suppressive wall of lead.

"_The Marines are advancing!"_ Another shouted, as, on the Human end of the tunnel, a veritable wall of advancing Marines, all of whom were sheltered behind massive, square shields with windows on the front, the thick slabs of armored plates acting as mobile cover and protecting them from the gunfire. "_Focus fire on the glass view-ports!" _They knew that the only way to survive this battle was to push the Humans back into their ship, retreat further into their own, seal off this entire deck, and then forcibly break away from the Destroyer; though what they would do after _that, _what with their broken FTL drive, no one thought about.

Suddenly, the Spartecs' comms started squelching loudly, before sounds of gunfire issued forth from them. Blinking, the Spartec who'd taken charge crouched back behind cover and fingered his radio, "_say again?"_ He called out.

"_The prisoner! He's on board the ship and he's tearing through the engineering section!"_ Shouted a Turian voice over the sounds of intense gunfire, shouts, death cries, and roars of desperate rage.

Before the Spartec could even consider a response, he heard others call out that the shielded marines had made it to their end of the connector tunnel, and now they'd used their shields to seal them off. The gunfire died down for a few moments, as the Spartecs let their heat-sinks cool down and considered their next actions. Grenades wouldn't be adviseable - not so close to the bulkhead - but little else than explosives or heavy weapons could pierce the shield wall, and with the SIGMA - however malnourished and exhausted he may be - tearing his way through the ship, they were stuck between a rock and a hard place.

"_Alright, here's what we do - they can't get into this ship unless they go through that tunnel. The spirits-damned second one of those shields move, half of us open fire and don't stop until our rifles lock up, then the next ones go."_ The Spartec whispered into his communicator, "_that will keep them pinned and buy the others time enough to kill the SIGMA. It __**is**_ _possible, a Spartec has done it before."_ 'Vakarian's last stand' was legendary not just for the body-count the lone Spartec had racked up, but for the fact that, after he'd sent off his squad-mates and their VIP, he'd managed to engage the Human SIGMAs in single combat and _win;_ the Spartec's words were meant to rally up his men and invigorate them for the coming battle, though in the back of his mind, he knew he was just saying it to give them some modicum of hope before the Humans killed them, either through raw numbers or some underhanded trick.

As it turned out, the Humans would use the latter. The shield wall was a diversion, barely seconds after it had formed on the Turian end of the connector tunnel, hundreds of Marines and unmanned drones from the Alliance ship had left the ship for an EVA walk, and leapt from the Human ship to the Turian vessel. In a maneuver they'd practiced thousands of times before, both in and out of combat, they leapt from their ship and landed on the enemy vessel, and spread out like ants, choosing fifteen AI-designated infiltration points, before the AI-driven mechs handed the Humans plasma-cutting tools, and they carved their way into the ship. All over the ship, various self-contained, sealed off sectors decompressed and marines streamed inside, and the Spartecs defending the connector tunnel were suddenly assaulted from three different sides - left, right, and dead center, the moment the shield wall got word that the Marines had breached, the wall broke up, and revealed a Turtle Mech, its railgun fully charged and ready to fire. With barely a cybernetic thought, the Turtle's main cannon fired, tearing through several of the raised plates the Spartecs were using as cover, several of the Spartecs themselves, and then again through multiple walls before its momentum finally was curved enough to the point where it couldn't go on any longer - and at that point, it was still moving fast enough that the force of impact let out a massive shockwave, blasting apart most everything in the immediate area.

"_All Spartecs, code red!"_ A survivor shouted into his communicator, before he broke cover and fired twice into the torrential tidal wave of Alliance Marines. "_Purge all systems, wipe all -"_ He was interrupted entirely when a silvery-gray blur sprinted through the advancing crowds and leapt up at him. His highly trained instincts gave him just enough time to draw his weapon and slam it in to the gut of the horrifying varren-like creature, that leapt up and tackled the survivor to the ground, he opened fire just as it opened its mouth and revealed a gun barrel, which flashed thrice and ended the Turian's life. The machine's damages were only moderate, as opposed to the Spartec's lack of life.

The Wolf Mech took fire from its left side, and one well trained, eagle-eyed Spartec managed to get a few slugs in its head, shattering its Positronic Brain and its motherboard, killing it before its machine pack-mates and Marine allies could turn the offending Turian into greenish-red paste; soon, the drones were reinforced by raw muscle: the Marines began storming through the ship the ship, which quickly activated its emergency defensive measures and extended its mass-effect field so as to avoid as much decompression as possible. More wolf-mechs and turtles followed the marines, and in less than a half hour the Cruiser had half of the Destroyer's contingent of one and three quarters thousand marines, plus many dozens of mechs storming its halls. The battles were short but brutal, as many Alliancemen took injuries and just as many perished from the Special Forces Turians, who - though they fought savagely, as befitting their skill - eventually fell due to the Alliance's superior numbers, and intentionally suicidal tactics on the mechs' end.

Alliance ship-boarding tactics consisted primarily of utilizing the pure-atmosphere environments of the enemy ships, thus they made great use of Thermal Imaging modes on their HUD's, smoke grenades, flash-bangs, and EMP Grenades. The Marines stormed hallways in groups of three, with their Mech leading the pack, any engagements were dealt with as swiftly as possible, and any and all officers that could be captured _were,_ but unfortunately for the Alliance, the Spartecs had a strict _don't get captured_ policy, as they couldn't afford to reveal their connection to the Hierarchy, thus, the Officers often got themselves killed on purpose, after it became clear they could not fight any longer.

After three hours of bloody combat, the Turian Cruiser was secured, and the search for the SIGMA POW was on, as he'd appeared briefly to rip apart anything and everything that wasn't Human in the engineering sector, during the fight, but had disappeared the moment he'd done so, meaning that they'd quite literally missed him in all of the chaos of battle. The Humans were broadcasting on all local channels, plus the ship's own speakers, for the SIGMA to reveal himself, calling out friendly hostilities-ceased codes, but if the SIGMA heard them, he made no attempt to respond.

It took another forty five minutes for any progress to be made, down in the cargo hold of the _Hirun_ a Human symbol had been burned into the ship's bulkhead: it was the Greek letter for Sigma, and once it had been found almost all focus had been placed upon the cargo hold. The Marines were looking for anything they could find, nooks and crannies that could be hidden in, smuggler's holes that were cleverly hidden, anything. Eventually, however, the Captain herself was called in to investigate something, when asked what, the Marine Sergeant had responded with the universally recognized 'I'm afraid I can't discuss that'', meaning he had found _exactly_ what they were looking for, but couldn't say it over comms, _just in case_ they still had someone out there, and said someone was monitoring comms.

So now the Captain was aboard the Turian warship. Had her vessel been supplied with an N7 squad, they five would have most certainly been following her, but most – if not, all – N7 were being deployed to the Warfront, as were half of the Alliance's active-duty and reserve Orbital Dropping Death Dealers, so her ship had only Marines. She made it down to the cargo hold, which she found was far too dark for her comforts. The Marines noticed this and activated their HUD's flashlights, helping to light her way in the dimly lit, dark hold.

"Sergeant. What are we looking for?" Shepard asked, formally, after she made it to the Sergeant who had called her.

"The man said he wouldn't speak to anyone unless it was the Alliance Ship's captain, ma'am." The Sergeant said, "he opened fire upon us when we tried to approach him, we tried to show that we were friendly, but he wasn't having it." He then indicated the Marines, stacked up behind cover spheres, and one discarded cell-fluid canister, someone had been on the receiving end of the Augmented Elite's gunfire, but either by the grace of god or by the SIGMA's intention, hadn't been killed. Said Marine was probably the luckiest man alive.

Beyond the Marines was what Shepard could only describe as an impromptu fort, several plates that looked like they'd been ripped right from the walls of the ship had been jammed into the ground and each other to create a sort of 'room' from which the SIGMA could fire upon anyone he saw, and no one could fire upon him, due to the low lighting conditions of their environment.

"He said he wants to _see_ you, too." The Sergeant added.

"Alright." The Captain said, calmly, she'd had experience with soldiers with some form of PTSD before, she knew what to do. "Stay here, try not to look threatening..." She lowered her voice, "but keep a sharpshooter on hand. AM Rounds." She said, with a serious nod, before she inhaled deeply, and exhaled, before she made her slow trek to the SIGMA's Den.

She took two steps before two slugs buried themselves into the ground in front of her feet, and in the distance, she saw the deeply golden visor polarize and blaze straight through the darkness, managing to be foreboding, in direct spite of its inspiring design.

"Declare yourself!" She heard the voice behind the visor roar out.

"My name is Hannah Shepard." The Captain said, slowly, calmly, and loudly, "Captain of the SSV _Theodore Logan. _You requested to see me specifically... We only want to bring you home, safely, SIGMA." She said, calmly.

The SIGMA was silent for several tense, endless minutes, during which the visor tilted sideways and regarded her, almost curiously. "_Which US President was the one serving during World War Three?"_ He called out.

"Charleston..." The Captain said after she wracked her brain, "he died during the White House bombing." Knowing that looking up the answer could signal her death.

"_What weapon did he authorize usage of before his death?"_

"The weapons satellite now known as the Hand of God." _That_ she did know off the top of her head, HOG-Sats were something of a staple of Alliance warfare, they were the first WMD the Alliance would consider using, next being fully-charged naval strikes, and the last being raw nuclear force.

There was several seconds of silence, before the SIGMA revealed himself. The Captain quickly repressed a gasp of shock at the man's condition. His armor was scorched and bore several deep grooves and puncture wounds, with one particularly large gash dragging across his breast-plate and cutting through the area his ID-number would have been, the groove across his chest clearly wasn't just a 'flesh wound', as it were, because it was leaking blood terrifyingly freely, worse was that his muscle suit was shredded and cut to pieces in many places, and now that she got a good look at him, she realized that the golden, gas-mask visor had several cracks, and one spider-web crack spiraling outwards from dead-center: the man had taken a round directly to the face, and had survived only because of his now compromised armor. She saw his hands, which one had clenched in it an alien pistol, and in the other a Human magnum, both of which had compromised armor and were bleeding - one of them looked like it had taken a round directly; how it was still functioning was beyond her. Shepard didn't know why, but the seriously injured quality of the man's body affected her, something in the back of her mind bidded her to tell the man that everything would be okay, that he was safe now, he was with Humans again, he was with family family.

It was now she realized he was breathing heavily, but before she could speak he went to attention, clicked his heels, and labored up a salute. "John S2-15… Reporting for duty... Captain." He said, fatigue rapidly setting into his voice the more he spoke. Before he or she could say anything else, however, his body finally gave up, and he fell forward, slamming into the ground with a loud metallic thud, creating an astonishingly deep dent in the floor on impact; his arm still stiff in its salute.

"Get this man to medical, now!" Shepard ordered the Marines, who sprang into action.

* * *

><p>"<em>In other news... The Human-extremist group Terra's Soul has claimed responsibility for the Suicide Attack upon the Asari corporate world Eirliin. The planet's Regius council has kindly – but firmly – demanded that the Alliance hand over all data as to the aggressors, so proper retribution can be found, though there is no word as to the Alliance's silence to the situation."<em>

"Mute." Director Leonard Trent of the Human Systems Alliance sat back with a sigh.

Months had passed since the Batarian War had begun. He was thankful in all things that the Alliance was close to winning it and simply being done with the stress of war with foreign powers. The problem with warfare when one was the Director for Augmented affairs – essentially meaning he was in charge of the Alliance's Super Soldiers, the SIGMA Operatives – was that any military leader, from the highest of Generals to the lowest of Sergeants, felt that their operation required SIGMA Assistance. And while the SIGMAs were, truly, Super _Soldiers,_ thus suggesting that they were meant for frontal assaults and such duties as would be meant for _Soldiers,_ the fact was that SIGMAs were Special Forces. The Marines had their OD3's, the Navy had the N7, and the Army – by virtue of technicality – had the SIGMAs, and while it wasn't true at all that more Soldiers got into the SIGMAs than Marines, N7, or OD3's, the fact remained that the Army's Generals felt far more entitled to the SIGMAs than anyone.

The result was Generals, both Marine and Army, and uncommonly even the Air and Space Force, breathing down his neck for SIGMA Assistance. He took solace in the fact that the Navy had no _need_ for the SIGMAs, seeing as how the SIGMAs were used for assaults, not naval engagements, though there were stories from the Mercenary Wars about SIGMAs assuming direct control of various naval vessels and turning otherwise losing battles into rousing victories. Everyone seemed to think that the SIGMAs were an inexhaustible resource, when just opposite was true, the closest time anyone had ever come to being faced with that reality was during the Second Contact War, when countless SIGMAs had been killed during the Tokyo Bombing. Even now, in this war, due to the Senile AI's actions, many of his SIGMAs had been killed, though thankfully their original estimates were far from correct, where originally they had thought they'd lost over half a thousand SIGMA I's, in reality they had lost just over one hundred. Limited in number, they may be, but hearty, and hard to kill, they _definitely _were.

Director Trent was very vocal with his fellow Directors about his outrage against Nikola's actions against the SIGMAs, though he couldn't truly do anything about it, as that investigation fell to the AATF, under Serios' control. All Trent knew, as of this moment, was that AiDS – as it was coming to be called – had something to do with the AI's digital cloud slowly but surely becoming far too overcrowded with data they deemed necessary, and thus, did not delete. He thought it akin to Hoarders, the AI's truly believed that the data they were keeping stored in their cloud was vital to their continued success, and thus, did not delete it. The result was what the doctors had called 'Schizophrenia for AI's', all the data in the AI's cloud clashed with its recorded memories and its primary processors, McGraw had coined the term 'AI Senility' to explain the after-effect, and the researchers had backed up his theory that one of the primary causes of Nikola's degradation was the scanned organic parts of its mind aging and clashing with the cybernetic parts.

Then there had been other theories, stemming from the _physical_ degredation of their machinery. Nikola's AI disk had been examined by a private party recommended by McGraw, and his theories had ran parallel to the AATF's, but had relied more on the fact that AI's always felt compelled to return to their original Data Storage Disks - the eponymous AI Disk - and disks as old as Nikola's were bound to be wearing themselves down and running low on their lifespan. As time went on and the disk wore itself thinner and thinner, brief glitches added on and started having effects on their programming, the long and short of it meaning that their physical 'health' had real effects on their mental 'health'.

Trent knew there was much more to it than he was aware of, but what he was focusing on was the loss statistics for the SIGMA II's. Amazingly, in their three months of active duty service, only three had to be hospitalized for critical wounds, and even then, none of them had died, and two of them were already back on the battlefield, the third having had his arm blown clean off by a Batarian Sniper, was still waiting for the doctors to finish replacing it.

Then, of course, there was the missing SIGMA, 2-15 was his ID Tag. Several times he'd motioned to have him declared dead, but each time 2-15's Commander, Joseph Ducard, had shot him down firmly, citing that none of his II's will die in some mercenary POW camp. Trent seriously doubted the Commander, but nonetheless, they all were unanimously – and religiously – dedicated to the idea that 2-15 would still be alive, and were prepared to fight simply to keep him listed as MIA, so unless he wanted the SIGMAs to exercise the cursed _SIGMA Protocol Sixty Six,_ he would have to obey them.

He heard a knock on the door, odd, since most who had to speak with him went through his secretary first, and the Secret Service agents that _had_ to get to him in emergencies would have ignored the door entirely. He bade the person enter, and saw, to his surprise, found himself face to face with Director Serios, his own Secret Service posse standing outside, exchanging nearly unnoticeable nods with Trent's guards.

"Director Serios, to what -"

"We found him." Serios stated, "I just heard from the Admiral of the Third Fleet, he's sent the Destroyer here, Priority Oh."

Trent blinked, "priority _Zero?"_ He said, "who warrants -" It clicked for him just a moment before the Director for Defense spelled it out for him.

"The MIA Sigma, John-S2-15."

"That's great news, you say the ship is on its way?"

"Yes." Serios said, actually entering the room and shutting the door, Trent was now aware that the situation was serious, otherwise Serios would have given him a final one-liner and been on his way. "The ship, a Destroyer, _Theodore Logan,_ is on its way..." He sat down in the chair in front of Trent's desk.

"What is it?"

"You are aware of John Shepard S2-15's... _Unique_ circumstances revolving around his recruitment." Trent did _not_ miss how Serios used John's Human _and_ SIGMA monikers in the same sentence.

"Doctor Mossman is still holding that one over me." Trent mentioned offhandedly. "And I've never forgotten... I lost three days' sleep making sure the story was waterproof."

"The Captain of the _Logan_ is Hannah Shepard, and from what I've gathered, they've already had brief contact."

Trent's shoulders sagged a bit as implications few through his mind, but then he thought of something. "The kid was seven when she last saw him... Now he's fourteen, with the physical build of a man twice his age... Why do you think she'll recognize him?"

"It's not her I'm worried about." Then Trent caught on. "One of the chemical augmentations given to the II's increased their mental capacity, everything from intelligence to memory was enhanced... While the Captain's face may be far from his conscious mind, it'll just take one good look and a few words of conversation for him to recognize her."

"What do you suggest?"

"Last report says that they put John in a medically induced coma, their ship's head-medic mentioned that the SIGMA would need armed guards _far_ more skilled than their Marines, when he woke up." Serios began, "that means that John is out cold, but they will wake him up when he gets to the station... So we'll need to move fast when our scanners pick it up." He paused, "I happen to know for a fact that our newest carrier, the _Einstein,_ is due for completion within the next few days, perhaps a week from now."

Trent caught on, "you want to get Captain Shepard here, so she can speak with her Admiral via comm-link, and we can get her away from the ship ASAP."

"He'll relay my orders, and become the captain of the Einstein." Serios paused, "the Admiral won't be happy, however, he was planning on passing her over for a different Captain."

"Any reason as to why?" Trent asked, out of curiosity.

"The Admiral knows who her husband was. _Exactly_ who he was."

"Who was he?"

"David Shepard." Trent fell silent, understanding Serios' unsaid words. "Regardless, I convinced him to allow her to take the reigns... All we need to do is get her on this station before she goes to wake up the child."

Trent nodded, "all of this hinges on her sense of duty overriding her sense of compassion." Serios nodded, "well... Here's hoping." He shrugged, sighing deeply and clenching the bridge of his nose.

* * *

><p>"The guy, <em>literally<em>, woke up from a G-D _coma_ just to break my arm and take the pistol back." Said the Marine, as he and several of his squadmates relaxed in the starboard relaxation wing.

The man sitting across from him did a double-take, "_how?"_ He asked, "I was there when the doc put him under, he said the guy's got enough stuff running through him to keep a _Panzor_ out of commission!"

"The hell's a Panzor?" The third man asked, as he leaned up against the several inch thick slab of glass, separating them from the blue-gray void outside.

"Ever been to Roof?" The marine shook his head, "well, that place only has _one_ native species, the Panzor. The damn thing's bigger than a mammoth, tougher than a gorilla, and uglier than a Krogan." He explained, gesturing with his hands as he did so. "They evolved on a world where meteors fall to earth almost routinely, so natural selection chose the ugly fuckers with thick skin... Fast forward to the colonization effort, and we run into Panzors with skin so thick, so tough, people actually mistook it for _stone."_

"Jesus..." The third marine blinked, "they violent?"

The second laughed, "actually, no, the things are pretty cuddly." A second passed, "of fucking _course_ they're violent, these aren't Eden's Tarpos, here, they were named after _tanks._ The Colonial Milita, and the local Alliance Army outpost actually had to hunt these things down when they killed eighty people, now they're only around in the undeveloped regions of the world, and specifically crafted preservation sites." He paused, "I heard one of 'em took on a tank and damn near _won_ during the Panzor Purge."

The third marine nodded, looking impressed. "So... SIGMAs need drugs enough to keep _those_ things out of commission, and this guy woke himself the hell up, just to take back his gun?" He looked at the first, who nodded. "Damn... Glad they're on _our_ side."

Soon after, the feeling of deceleration hit their guts, an instant passed as the outside flashed a brief, pure white, and then the Alliance Destroyer had exited the Warp and was now in real-space. The Marines got up to look at Arcturus Station, the Capital of the Human Systems Alliance.

"Never been there before... Actually." The third Marine mentioned offhandedly, as he looked at the station. He now understood why many foreign nationals had called the place the 'City in the Stars', because the place, while it did have the Alliance-Custom 'dual saucer' aesthetic for its outer hull, was exactly as advertised: A city in space. As much as it was the political hub of the Alliance, it was also a major tourist attraction, restaurants, shopping malls, hotels, even a few dozen apartment complexes had sprung up as the Station had gained popularity. One Asari dignitary had even called it the 'Alliance's custom-built Citadel'. The Marine had heard all of these sentiments, but hadn't believed any of them until now, he'd never been here before.

"_Really?"_ The Panzor-marine asked him, incredulously. "Damn near every Marine I know's been here... Nowhere else in the Galaxy so tailor-made to servicing the Navy." He pointed to the far side of Arcturus, where the third Marine could see several Naval Vessels docked and being serviced. "Outside of Eden's shipyards, and maybe Titan-6's landing zones, Arcturus is _the_ one-stop shop for all your Navy Needs." He took on the TV Salesman voice, "need repairs? They've got matter synthesizers always cooking. Need ammo? Nowhere else in the Alliance – save for Earth – with more bullets, bombs, and Rail Slugs. Need a new engine, or some upgrades to your computer parts? AI's can have that stuff done in a _day."_ He chuckled.

"And we got sent here for killing a few dozen Turians and saving a SIGMA." The first marine mentioned, as the intercom crackled. "I expect some medals, after this."

"I just want some G-D _shore leave..._ I mean, I know we're at _war_ and everything... But... _Really..._ It's against the Batarian _Hegemony,_ of all people, we've only given them a fraction of what we gave the Turians or the Mercenaries, and we finished in three months..." The second Marine lamented.

A new voice joined the conversation, "I'll have you know, the Batarians and their mock-up ships have taken apart _dozens_ of our ships with hit and run attacks. More still have gone missing." The three whipped around and saw the ship's Executive Officer, he nodded to the far side of Arcturus, just before it left view and the Destroyer made its last thruster burn to halt its momentum, so to get magnetically clamped to the station. "Ever suffered from void exposure, Private?"

"Err... No sir." Said the second marine.

"The sailors we _found_ number large enough that even Earth's medical stations had to offload some weight here. _Titan, medical, station,_ was overwhelmed after their first strike above Siler." The XO stated, as the ship rocked and was clamped into place.

_"Found,_ sir?"

"More still were missing, along with our ships." The XO said, before he nodded and let the Marines reel.

* * *

><p>The Captain of the <em>Theodore Logan<em> slowly and silently walked through the halls of her mighty vessel. Twenty four hours of shore leave had made many off-duty sailors and marines shoot out from the ship faster than an OD3 ejection sequence, so she enjoyed the silence. The corridors of hers – and most, if not, _all_ Alliance ships – were Spartan in nature, designed to _work,_ with aesthetic appeal coming later. The walls and ceiling were made of enormous, square metallic plates, with the floor being made similarly, but with small carpets adorning the high-traffic areas, such as the one she was passing now, the pathway leading to the medical wing.

In all the things she could have been expecting upon, however, the lower half of an obviously Quarian engineer sticking out from a plateless wall would not have been on the list.

"Engineer, report." She said, and if the sudden 'clang' of metal hitting metal, and the Kehlish curse afterwards was any indication, she'd startled the engineer.

The Quarian, who wore a dark red suit, with Standard Navy Coveralls over it, slid out from his position, and quickly got to his feet. He fired off a salute, "sorry, ma'am. Tiro'Fik nar Morrule." The Captain nodded, and the Quarian quickly got to explaining himself, "I was looking over the power usage in the medical wing, after the Chief mentioned that there was something in the ship dragging on -" The Quarian was interrupted by a new voice.

"_Captain Shepard, please report to your nearest air-lock." _The _Logan's_ AI broadcasted helpfully, "_Captain Shepard, please report to your nearest air-lock."_

"I'll have to read your report, then." Shepard nodded to the Quarian, who looked visibly relieved that he didn't have to continue to babble.

She walked several paces and spoke with the AI as she traversed the sterile halls of the Alliance Vessel. "What am I needed for?" The Captain asked.

"_I am afraid the classification levels of said request were not granted to me." _The AI responded, "_all I was allowed to know was that Director Jonathan Serios himself wished to speak with you."_

The Captain nodded automatically, her mind stuck on the fact that she'd been summoned by the Director for _Defense._ The man was what Hannah called a living legend, he'd led the Alliance Armed Forces through the Second Contact War, and that had been his _first term._ Re-election came and so did the Mercenary Wars, and after his popularity had begun to dwindle and another election was on the way, the Batarians had brought them to another war, and suddenly everyone wanted the veteran leader back in office. Hannah also knew that, with just one word, he could effectively make or break her career, so she had to make a damn good impression.

Exiting the ship, Hannah looked up just in time to see a cadre of SIGMAs head into the vessel from the tertiary air-lock, located near the ship's rear. She blinked hard at the sight, the SIGMAs weren't going in casually, they were _armed,_ and though she had never seen them even train it before, they were executing ship-boarding procedures, plans meant for boarding _hostile enemy ships._ What was so important about the SIGMA she had found that they had to go in with hostile intent? Was it a deserter? Or was this standard for the Augmented Elite?

"Captain Shepard!" She looked down, seeing a Secret Service agent waving her down. "Follow me, please."

"Why are armed SIGMA Operatives boarding _my_ ship?" Shepard demanded, stepping off of the ramp.

"Ma'am, I'm afraid I can't say anything you don't already know." The agent replied, "all I can tell you is what I know: The person you have on your ship is part of the _next generation."_

Shepard blinked, _Next generation?_ Those words, much like the words from the AI, shocked her into submission, she followed the agent silently.

* * *

><p>Something was stirring within him. He could feel it, in the back of his mind, almost pressing against his skull in a non-painful but still very tangible way.<p>

_Instincts._

Something was going to happen. He knew it, there was no denying it, every cell in his recently augmented body had been trained to know when danger was coming.

_Danger._

He kept his eyes closed and reached out with all of his senses. He felt he was on a gurney, he remembered he'd been found by the Alliance.

_Ship._

He was in a ship. But he didn't feel the faint vibrations that came from an active drive core or thruster propellant, they weren't moving. They were dry-docked, or perhaps someone had docked with them.

_Boots on metal._

Faintly, a great distance away, or perhaps very close to him, he heard the sound of boots stepping onto the ground. Someone was coming, and he didn't hear any breathing in the room, so it was either empty or was populated by him plus a corpse.

_Gun metal._

Gun metal and gun oil had a very specific smell to the augmented child-soldier, he attributed it to a musty, wooden smell, like the smell of an aged pine tree. In short, it was distinctive, and his bio-chemically augmented nose picked it up as if it were only a few meters from him.

_Danger._

The ship was being boarded with fire-arm users.

_Rebels._

His room was silent and he didn't hear gunfire.

_Mutiny._

He was a SIGMA II Operative – in training - that could not afford to expose either himself or the program.

_Absence._

The pistol he'd stolen from the Turians was missing, his armor had been stripped off so he could be operated on, and while he was wearing what felt like coveralls, he was essentially naked.

_I need a weapon._

John S2-15's eyes shot open and he was greeted with the blinding light of the ceiling above him. He didn't even blink and already he had adjusted and was flipping over the side of the gurney, landing silently on his shoeless feet. John didn't hesitate after landing, he peered around the gurney and saw nothing but the rest of the medical wing. After a second, however, he heard movement on the other side of the wing's door, a significant distance away.

_No time for a gun._ John would have preferred a firearm, but he made do by grabbing a nearby IV and crushing its end with his biotics, to make it into a spear shape. Even melee weapons such as swords, knives, and spears hadn't been outside the reach of the SIGMA II's Instructors, John's preference was for longswords, specifically bastard swords that could be used with either one or two hands, but spears were a close second for the psychological effect.

John crouched low and peered around the gurney again, exposed enough to have a good field of vision, but hidden enough that no one could see him. He just needed one opening, he could throw the IV-Spear and the battle would begin.

_Spear. Then flip bed and charge forward. Biotic attack on non-injured combatant, Vi-Contactus on the third and use as shield. Disarm. Gain Weapon. Execute._ Thought John as he inhaled once and exhaled deeply.

The door opened and John didn't hesitate, he sprang up and hurled the spear with all of his might. He then slammed his knee into the hospital bed, flipping it, and he kicked it forward with his biotically enhanced foot. The bed went flying through the air, John in pursuit mere inches behind it.

The reaction he got came only a split second before he recognized the armor. Instead of cowering, or freezing at the sight of the bed, the attackers dived under, over, or out of the way of it. Instead of being surprised by the spear, they had literally shot it out of the air with super-human speed and precision. Best and worst of all, instead of being Human beings, the men attempting to take John were SIGMA Operatives.

Unfortunately to John, a SIGMA never gives up, even if he recognized them, he couldn't simply _stop_ fighting them, that was a sign of weakness neither Ducard nor himself would accept. In lieu of this, John adjusted his tactics.

The SIGMA that dove under the bed met John's foot. It stung greatly, but the barrier John had wrapped around his foot had helped with that. The impact was felt by the One below him but the One didn't react out of the initial, mandatory, head-snap. The One on the ground grabbed John's foot with an adamantine, armored grip, and John responded by stomping his foot on the ground, ignoring that One temporarily to grab the One flying over the bed. He grabbed the One by the shoulders and used his momentum to hurl him past his intended target, but not before the one slammed John's chest with his rifle butt.

John felt his chest bruise as the butt left it and the SIGMA sailed forward and to the ground. John turned back to the One on the ground and quickly threw his entire body-weight backwards, just missing three rounds of Paralyzing Paint. John flowed back to his original position, and used his momentum, plus his biotics, to plant his fist firmly in one of the only unarmored portions of a Titan Mk. 1 suit of armor: The throat.

Without breaking stride, after slamming his fist into the SIGMA's throat, he hurtled it left and wrapped his arm around the SIGMA's own. John could feel the immense strength behind the SIGMA's augmented muscles, and the even greater power behind the powered armor that covered the body. John had one opportunity to wrench the pistol from the SIGMA's grip, and through a stroke of luck, he did so. John's leg replaced his arm, wrapping around his opponent's arm; refusing to lose his grip on the man, John also planted his knee on the man's throat.

He turned to where he'd left the flying One to receive a punch directly to the nose. John knew what was coming next, he tossed the gun up in the air, raised his right hand to block, and caught the gun with his left. The One's haymaker slammed into John's arm, which protected his head, as pressed down on his knee and fired the gun point-blank at the SIGMA until it went click.

The SIGMA was now thoroughly covered in the concrete-hard paint, and the one beneath him was still struggling. John slammed his fist into the SIGMA's golden helmet and stole a magazine from him, he reloaded the pistol deftly and paralyzed the One a moment later.

John huffed once and got to his feet, proud that he'd taken on two SIGMAs in -

_There was only two!_ John heard the click of a hammer being drawn back an instant after the revelation: He'd forgotten all about the SIGMA that had dived to the left of the bed.

"_Always clear your corners, son."_

John nearly looked behind him, he _recognized_ that voice. He responded slowly, his arm was in front of his stomach, the One holding a gun to his head couldn't see him pressing it – barrel pointed at the enemy – to his side.

"Check your footing, sir." He advised.

Every SIGMA knew every trick in the book and how to get around it, he heard the one shift his weight onto each leg, and when he shifted onto his left, John fired twice while diving forward, now it wasn't a brawl, or a fight, it was a game. The One saw it coming a second before John had done it, but hadn't had the time to react, so he took one Paint round in the gut. He could still move though, and very quickly he found himself in a standoff with the lone SIGMA Teen.

The number on the One's chest-plate read _S1-99._

"_I'm glad to see your nap didn't dampen your skills, kid." _The synthetically filtered voice said.

"Quite the opposite, sir."

The standoff continued, neither's aim faltered.

"_I thought we'd lost you."_

"I thought you knew better."

They both knew not to lower their weapon, John had been taught better, the One had _learned_ better.

"_A lot's happened."_

"Anyone else gone?"

"_Not a two."_ They both understood the blunt significance of the statement.

"What about a one?"

"_Far fewer than initially predicted."_

John and the One held each other at a standoff for several more endless moments. Finally, as if they had decided upon it beforehand, they each both broke aim at exactly the same time. John got to his feet and then sprang to attention.

"John S2-15 reporting for duty."

* * *

><p><em>AN:_

_Yeah, I pulled a shameless Halo reference up there, and anyone who missed it the first go-round will find it now that I've mentioned it. _

_I still defend the fact that this story isn't a Halo rip, but at this point I'm thinking more along the lines of just embracing it and seeing how I can tease everyone with it. _

_Also, I love how easily I manipulated you all, last chapter.  
>I won't tell you how I manipulated you all, only that you all immediately concluded <strong>exactly<strong> what I was leading you to, and that conclusion may, or may not, even be correct._

_'Till next time, folks!_

_-PFB_


	29. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

"Though the road's been rocky it sure feels good to me."

― Bob Marley

July 6th, 2216

* * *

><p>In little more than an hour, John had been woken up, assaulted, taught a lesson, escorted off of the Destroyer, brought to a SIGMA Vessel, and then launched not towards home, but towards the front lines. He had concluded that the speed of departure had been necessary due to his required presence in the war, not at all even considering the fact that he'd nearly had an encounter that could have shattered the beliefs held by over half of a thousand children. He'd been brought to the belly of the frigate-sized ship and told to work on repairing his armor and fixing his Skin-Suit until Ducard came down to debrief him. Anyone else would have groaned, or complained at how <em>damn quickly<em> he was being sent back on to the front-lines, but John had lived his life subserviently under the boot of the military, he wasn't complaining, he'd expected it. If anything, he felt relieved to be going to the combat zones, that meant he wouldn't have to sit on Sparta and twiddle his thumbs, wondering what he should do to fill the time between war and training - because it wasn't like Ducard or any of the other Company Commanders would be there to train him, they were supervising the Twos on their various deployments and operations.

Fixing the seriously damaged armor plating that would go over his skin-suit was a deceptively simple affair. The Twos hadn't been given metal-working classes on Sparta, such a skill was largely useless in a military setting, and even in a modern engineering career, thanks to robotics and the advent of Artificial Intelligence. No, John was less hammering armor in to the vague shape of his chest and gut, and more cutting apart spare Titan Suits, taking out the pieces of machinery that were useless to his currently bio-chemically augmented body, and putting it back together in a form that was more useful for the teenaged soldier;_ that,_ he knew how to do. Every SIGMA knew the ins and outs of Titan Armor, it was an unsaid requirement - one never knew when they would have to field-strip or conduct their own repairs to their armor, and no SIGMA trusted anyone with their armor better than they trusted themselves; truly, the only non-SIGMA hands to touch Titan armor were the AI's that made the factory-models and shipped them out, after that, it was all SIGMA.

The most difficult part was in the taking apart of the spare chest-plates he'd been given. The Titan One suits were far more plate-armor suits than the II's more 'spartan' equipment. The T1 suits had been made with more of a medieval plate-armor look in mind, they weren't anywhere near as bulky as their base - much the opposite, they were far more maneuverable than OD3 powered assault armor - but they had been made before the advent of synthetic muscle suits, so Titan One armor had to be thick and all-protective in order to keep the mechanized servos secure and safe from damage. That meant that a lot of the tech inside of the T1 suits worked around these servos, so in optimizing it for his own augmentations - or technical lackthereof - he had to remove first the servo units, the machines that regulated said servo units, and then the bits and pieces of tech that interfaced with augmentations he either didn't have or were unique to the SIGMA Ones.

The end result was a suit of armor that was half of its original weight, and bits and pieces of random assorted, impossibly expensive technology thrown in a pile that, altogether, would have been worth enough money to comfortably feed a family of four for several years, or feed that same family for decades if they'd rationed it all out. John took a step back from his work and took a moment to admire his 'new' suit. The chestplate from his older one had largely been trashed - the gouges left in it by the Spartecs' superheated omni-blades had fried many of the pieces of tech inside and had compromised its integrity to a point where it would be hazardous to his health to wear it on the field, so he'd replaced it wholesale with a new set of plates. His helmet was largely still functional - all of the machinery still worked perfectly - but he'd had to pop out the visor, he'd taken a sniper round to the face during his escape and the visor only held together through surface tension and some minute biotic manipulation. With nothing else to do to it, he took a nearby knife and carved his ID-Tag in to the left breastplate, and once he finished, he made his way to the other end of his little construction bay. His skin-suit needed patch jobs here and there to stitch together the synthetic muscles and make it vacuum sealed once again; a great deal of the problems with the seal were cosmetic, and had to do with power - the only piece of machinery that wasn't strands of synthetic muscle was the spinal-mounted power unit, which had had its fusion batteries removed during his imprisonment. Therefore, his target was a small box which contained inside of it three fusion batteries, if he wanted his skin suit to enhance his strength and start repairing itself, he'd need to get it power.

The battery itself was a small device, barely the size of a baseball and of similar shape to a pod. With a little effort, as the muscle-suit was without power and thus had to be manually unsealed and removed, John removed the torso section and placed it on the impromptu desk. The only intrinsically rigid piece of the skin-suit was in the small, spine-shaped machine that looked like it had been welded onto the back of the suit. John pried open the spinal column and inserted the fusion batteries in the empty receptacle. Soon after he closed it back up and put the suit back on, he was happily greeted by the almost unfeelable hum on his back. Experimentally, he picked up one of the less expensive hunks of metal he'd stripped from his newly optimized set of armor and crushed it in his bare hand with embarrassingly little effort, the former golf-ball sized hunk of metal was now the size of his fingernail.

Everything was up, running, and good enough for combat. He didn't even have to issue to the suit any verbal or smart-watch commands for it to realize it was damaged, its self-repair matrices were already hard at work repairing synthetic muscle and fusing synthetic skin. He did a few light stretches to make sure everything was in order, and after confirming that his suit was indeed on the fast-track to being completely fixed and functional, he put on the uniform he'd been provided. It was true that he was already clothed and covered by the skin-suit, but it was very tight-fitting, to the point where John still felt nude even when he wore it, a feeling that was only exacerbated by the fact that the suit simulated nerve-endings, so it really did feel like he wasn't even wearing it when it was on and activated, thus: Why SIGMAs wore their fatigues over their muscle-suits, and under their armor.

After John finished getting dressed, his augmented hearing picked up the light clanging of boots hitting ground. He straightened up and gazed in the noise's direction, springing to attention when Ducard entered the room. He fired off a salute, which Ducard reciprocated, and soon thereafter the two were on their way to the mess hall, John needed real food, and Ducard needed to debrief him on his absence. It felt good to be getting back to the uniformity of his military life, his stint at the Spartec base had almost been unbearable due to the simple fact that he had little to do other than wait for nightfall. Even physical exercise lost much meaning after the thousandth repetition.

* * *

><p>The area around them was quiet, lit with the sterile blue-white lighting of a ship. Their surroundings were the aptly spartan mess hall, all that was there was the kitchen, the cupboards, and a fridge containing enough pre-packaged Meals Ready to Eat to feed a budding colony for three years. John sat at a small rectangular table, of regulation size and regulation color - gunmetal gray. His MRE was to standard and would keep him and his enhanced metabolism going for as long as it took for him to get to his next meal. Their ship was a small vessel, hailing from the hundred-ship strong flotilla that constantly orbited Sparta and patrolled the Greek system, it wasn't designed for combat but rather for small-scale transport of assets, be they weapons or augmented forces. The four SIGMAs populating it were less than a quarter of its full carrying capacity, but to any civilian, it would have felt cramped and claustrophobic.<p>

John S2-15 and Joseph Ducard S1-99 were sitting in the ship's mess hall, with John eating several helpings of the Military's 'finest' Meals Ready to Eat, his first real, solid meal, in months, and his Commander filing John's report. Ducard had made it beyond clear that this was a one-time deal, _never_ again would he file out a II's reports if he could help it, as he already had enough to write out simply leading and training a company of them.

"So, from the top, John." Ducard requested of him a final time, the feeling of acceleration firmly present in his gut as their ship went through the Warp, not towards Sparta, but rather towards a Batarian moon-colony, the last front-line in the Alliance-Batarian War, things were gearing down, and the Alliance was calling in the big guns - it wanted this war to be over, so it could stop dedicating the economic resources to fighting, and instead dedicate those resources to their debatably misguided attempt at rehabilitating the enslaved population. The last reports had it that, on the conquered worlds, the enslaved alien population almost rivaled the free alien population pound for pound, person for person, and in some areas exceeded the free population; in other words, the Alliance's population was getting ready to increase by the billions, and many feared that their economy couldn't sustain that weight and continue the almost exponential growth it had been showing the last few decades.

"What happened before and during your capture." Ducard stated specifically, his scarred face set in stone as he waited for the boy-turned-soldier to explain to him once again how he had been tortured for months on end; that the child - if he even was a child at this point, one could even argue if he was even a_ Human -_ wasn't mentally shattered and destroyed was a testament to how well Ducard was training him. Something deep inside Ducard, in the places of his mind that fairly rarely reminded him that he was, indeed, still Human in his soul, absolutely hated him for just that reason.

John nodded, his dark green eyes not even partially glazing over as he began to recall his vacation with an almost perfect clarity. "Myself, the rest of Alpha Squad, and several other SIGMA II Squads were sent in to storm a Batarian military base confirmed to be holding multi-species slaves, many of them Human." He began, finishing his last quick-meal. "Myself and Alpha Squad's heavy weapons specialist entered the base and moved to extract the slaves while the others set up targeting beacons for Orbital Bombardments. We saw the Batarians experimenting on an unknown device, which we would learn was a Warp Gate, primitive in design, much like what Earth used pre-Alliance." He adjusted his seating position, and was now sitting straight as an arrow, shoulders-squared, hands folded atop one another. "We called off the primary strike, as doing so would invite a several dozen megaton blast that would kill our VIP's, and likely ourselves. Instead we made to extract the VIP's wholesale, but were discovered before we could sneak them out. We called in a small-scale strike to crumble a wall and make our retreat, and as we fled the Batarians activated the Warp Gate."

"What came out of the Warp Gate?" The Commander asked, his onyx eyes bearing holes into John's dark green.

"At the time I pegged them to be mercenaries, Turian in origin." John explained, "however they were using tech and gear that heavily suggested a federal funding, and was far too different to be the expensive custom jobs that mercenaries commonly used. It all looked regulation, built to code and built to last." He dropped his gaze and furrowed his brow, calling to mind everything he had catalogued for just this moment. "They used monocle-based Heads Up Displays, and wore kevlar-like clothing, however their clothing was lined with sensors that reacted to impact. A bullet's strike, for instance, would trip the sensors and the area around the impact point would harden, becoming rigid, like a hard-suit." He explained, this granted them the protection of OD3 PIAA and the mobility of twentieth century battle dress uniforms. With this armor they were as mobile as our own troops, but faster - they had less weight and could thus move around quicker. They used experimental Mass Accelerator weapons, too, designed to pierce energy shields with minimal rounds."

"Alright." Ducard said, writing this down on his report. Unlike practically every other military unit in existence, the SIGMAs still used pen and paper to write down their reports. This way they had a singular location where they could file and store these reports, and they couldn't be stolen by errant hackers, and if they were compromised, they could be incinerated in a kiloton blast. Secrets didn't exist without evidence to be kept hidden, after all, everything the SIGMAs had done - sanctioned or otherwise - could be found wherever the General kept the reports, from simple reconnaissance finds to the most secretive, damning secrets, such as proof of the existence of the legend of the Worst Hand In Poker

"After we escaped from the base..." John continued, regaining eye-contact. "We moved across a large open field, using our HardLight shields to form a phalanx around the civilians, and we evacuated them. The Turian Mercenaries saw a hole in our formation, but the soon-to-be injured Operative's suit's computers detected the aiming laser the mercenary was using. The mercenary's rookie mistake allowed us to shift position just as the slug penetrated the Operative's shields and buried into his skin suit. The Alpha Squad's sniper took aim and took the Turian Sniper's life as they rushed to meet us head

"I was engaged in hand to hand combat, the Turian seemed prepared for my powered armor but was unprepared for my Biotic Vi-Contactus, and I dispatched him quickly." The child-soldier explained, "I made to rendezvous with my squad, but saw Batarian Forces advancing upon them. I ordered our Heavy Gunner to extract with the civilians."

"Yes, Two-Sixty Six... He reports that you ordered him to extract, saying he would 'know why you did it' upon landing... Why did you do this?" Ducard picked up, he had ideas why, but he wanted to hear John's genius first hand. It took a certain kind of mind to come up with battlefield plans on the fly, and bluff the worst hand in poker into a straight flush.

"The ship we came in on was a Carrier. The shuttle we were extracting from had a very specific landing zone, right next to a re-entry capable fighter, whose pilot was a creature of habit." John explained, "I knew that, around the time George would land in the ship, the Pilot would be checking his ship and making any repairs, rearms, or cleanings needed. I knew how George thought, he thinks in heavy weapons and along the vein of 'what can't be solved with this gun can be solved with a bigger one', and therefor I predicted he would use his influence as a SIGMA to force the fighter to take off without orders, so he could give our forces air superiority."

"You ordered your squad mate to extract on the off chance that he would insubordinately use his nonexistent rank to force a pilot to take off without clearance?" Ducard clarified.

"Yes sir."

"And you watched and observed the patterns of the men and women in the shuttle-bay of your carrier, on the off-chance you may need such information later on?" That right there took a great deal of something that Ducard couldn't even identify, he'd been exposed to so many people during his active-duty days that he largely tuned out everyone but the people who outranked him, as did many SIGMAs after a good decade of service.

"Yes sir." John seemed unaware of what that suggested about him, but Ducard could almost see the challenge in the fire behind his eyes - he was almost saying that this was something _all_ SIGMAs should do, _just in case._

Boy, would this kid be in for a reality check when he really started fighting. Ducard almost felt sorry for him. "Understood." Ducard nodded and made note of John's words, "continue."

"When George took off I took control of the allied forces, we made a strategic push through enemy lines, all but three of us cloaked to get behind them. The three that stayed suppressed the Batarians with overwhelming fire, to make it seem like we had gotten reinforcements, instead of the exact opposite. Upon our breech, we ordered the former team to leave the Batarians, rendezvous with us, and in the Batarian confusion, we assaulted the base.

"However, we were met by the Turian Mercenaries. The Turians, backed up by Batarian Hunters, engaged us in a deadly firefight in which one of us was injured. Around this time George came in and launched a deadly strafing run. With several missile strikes he took out three quarters of the returning Batarians and used the fighter's auto-cannons to take out one of the Turians. I also learned from intercepted communications that the Turians were working on bringing in reinforcements from a still-active Warp Gate.

"It should be noted that, earlier, I radioed up to the Carrier and requested a priority one drop. I was and still am aware that you forbid the usage of this weapon on our mission, but I felt the situation called for drastic measures." John explained without an ounce of guilt in his pubescent voice, "I had to take down the enemy mercenaries, else we would have had casualties. So after we managed to secure a defensible position in the base, I retrieved the kiloton grenade and ordered the allied forces to bunker down, HardLight Freeze Protocol." He clarified, "my intention was to go through the gate, detonate the bomb, kill as many Turians as I could, and make contact with you when I got situated. However, I didn't know if the blast would travel through the portal before it shut, thus, the HL-F-P." He explained, "I am aware that it may have been more prudent to simply throw the grenade through the gate and end the threat then and there, but we would therefore have had an unknown threat with experimental technology, and little to no actionable intelligence on them. I had to make a judgement call, and so I myself went in to do the job, as opposed to sending someone else in."

Ducard nodded, "reports said all we got on our end was a localized shockwave and a jet of fire." He supplied.

John grunted in affirmation and let that sink in for a moment before he continued, "it took me forty eight minutes to make the trip from gate A to gate B. I engaged the Turians in a lengthy firefight as I set up the grenade to detonate. Upon its arming, I locked up my armor with HardLight and survived the kiloton and resultant megaton explosion."

"Did you attempt to outrun it?" Ducard asked, out of curiosity.

John shook his head, "I said I locked my armor, sir. I couldn't have outran it if I'd wanted to, and the room I was in had only one exit, and a lot of enemy combatants were keeping me from using it. So I made another." He took a sip of water. "After I landed, and was sure I was safe from any possible radiation, I unlocked my armor and smashed my smart-watch."

"Records say you broke the watch before entering the gate."

"The radiation from the primitive gate fried some of my watch's finer functions. It nearly broke trying to suffer the explosion."

"Alright." Ducard took down these notes, "so you took the fight to the Turian mercenaries, after which you were gone for three months, before you were discovered on a Mercenary ship, and successfully called for Alliance Assistance. What happened during the interim?"

John looked Ducard in the eye, "I learned they weren't Mercenaries, sir."

* * *

><p>The Alliance Director for Defense's office was sparsely decorated. As was custom, each office had a planetary-feel to it, and while its foundations were in fact the same steel and adamantine as the station around it, the office itself looked like it was cut out from a building on a planet, Earth specifically. The walls were made of wood and drywall, the floor was carpeted and the air smelled distinctly of Earth. Smell was one thing few space explorers before the colonisation age had considered - every planet smelled differently, though it was, on the whole, difficult if not impossible to describe these smells, Earth smelled like Earth, Eden like Eden, and so on; no two planets smelled alike.<p>

The lone figure in the room sat in the chair in front of the Director's desk. A mahogany creation, the desk was sparsely decorated. Upon it was a sheaf of papers, several datapads, and a computer. Off to the left – relevant to Captain Hannah Shepard – sat several pictures, of people Shepard didn't recognize, but assumed was the Director's family, both direct and extended, it seemed.

_I thought _I'd_ been called by _him... Shepard thought, rubbing her aching, sleepy eyes.

Shepard had been sitting in this office for over forty five minutes, at this point, and out of respect wasn't killing the time by using her smart watch. Instead, she had spent her time involuntarily burning the details of the earthy-smelling office into her mind. The walls were adorned with many paintings and pictures, though Shepard didn't recognize any of the ancient formers and recent latters, though she did think she recognize a picture of Jason Whyte shaking the hand of Christopher McGraw, the latter's unkempt mane and idiotic grin was recognizable the galaxy over, to the point that the word 'McGraw' was largely turning into an adjective one would use to describe a person similar to the eponymous man, and rumor had it the man himself was facilitating the usage of the term, claiming he thought it funny.

The door opened suddenly, and unceremoniously. Shepard got to her feet and turned to the door, she sprang to a salute when Director Serios finally entered.

"Director." She greeted formally.

The Director returned the salute, "Captain." He said, indicating for her to sit. "I sincerely apologize for the wait." He said, his middle-aged face sagging and his voice deep with lethargy. "Asari diplomats do not cease speaking, and a great many have been visiting, with the war coming to a close." He apologized, somewhat rehearsedly.

"It is no problem, sir." Shepard skillfully lied; she wasn't honestly mad at the Director, as much as she was mad that her shore leave was being more or less wasted. "May I ask what I was called for?"

The Director sat in his leather seat and slid up to his desk. He placed his elbows on the table and interlocked his fingers, masking his face behind them. His dark brown eyes bore deeply into Hannah's soul as he considered how to word whatever it was he was going to word. "I was informed that you came into contact with a SIGMA Prisoner of War, is that correct?" He asked.

"Yes, sir."

"What happened?"

Shepard suppressed a sigh, she'd already filled out the paperwork for this, that Serios had no doubt already read. "While on border-patrol, my ship – a Destroyer, the _Theodore Logan_ – came across a foreign cruiser broadcasting an SOS signal." She began, "after some correspondence we sent a boarding party aboard to confirm their status. Right before we reached an agreement and were about to assist them, my AI was contacted via burst transmission.

"Our ship's AI recognized the transmission as morse code, an SOS with a valid SIGMA identification tag attached at the end, and in minutes we were boarding the ship, searching for the SIGMA. After a lengthy engagement we took the ship, no prisoners. We searched for the SIGMA for many hours, and eventually found him, malnourished, injured, and lightly armed in the ship's lower bays. He'd made himself a veritable fox hole that the Turians hadn't discovered."

"I see... Then what? Did he speak to you?" The Director pressed, his tone suggested he was looking for something, but Shepard couldn't tell what.

"The SIGMA refused to make contact with us unless I was there. After my arrival he issued a challenge, which I answered correctly. He surrendered himself summarily, before losing consciousness outright." She explained, brushing a stray lock of dark red hair out of her face. "We rushed him onto the Logan and brought him in for medical treatment. We called here for orders and were told to make way for the station immediately."

"Alright." Said Serios, lowering his hands. "Did anything happen during the interim?"

"I had to quell many rumors about the SIGMA. Many were wondering why he his armor was so ruined and he looked so mistreated."

"What theories came up?" The Director urged.

Shepard blinked, wondering why the Director was so curious about scuttlebutt. "Some of the Marines thought we'd stumbled across an exercise in-progress. One or two thought he was a POW from the Second Contact War. Popular opinion was that he was deep undercover and had been found... The mercenaries were taking him to Palaven for a ransom."

Serios nodded, Shepard thought she saw relief in his eyes.

"If I may... Sir?" The Director straightened his back and nodded, his pale face as serious as his last name sounded. "What exactly did we pick up? Your Secret Service agent said something about the next generation SIGMA..."

Serios thought a moment, choosing his words carefully. "What the agent said is true, that you picked up a next-generation SIGMA. A SIGMA Two." He explained, "I cannot reveal to you the specifics of the Two's, but they are new, meant to be better than the best in every possible way. The one you picked up – a John Doe with the ID-tag Two-Fifteen – had been taken prisoner during a black ops assignment on a Batarian World, and I need to know, right now, if he said anything to you. The training for the Twos is unconventional, in a word, and after they get recruited they don't get much contact with the outside world, so anything he said or did in your presence is paramount."

Shepard racked her brains, "I cannot recall anything, sir. We had to sedate him when he got onto the ship, and he was mostly unconscious for the voyage."

"Mostly?" Serios asked, curiously.

"There was an incident when he woke up, broke the arm of one of my Marines, and took back the pistol that had been retrieved from his hip, but nothing else happened afterwards. He didn't say anything." Shepard admitted.

"Did any of the crew see his face?"

"Only the medic, our AI, and the injured Marine. I was going to check on him when we landed, but then I was summoned." She said, "I know this may sound insubordinate, but what kind of things are you doing that calls for such secrecy? I know they're notorious for this kind of thing, but I never expected _this."_

"All I will tell you is what I've already told you - our training methods for them are unconventional. We're trying to make them twice as lethal as our Ones. Where the Ones are jacks of all trades and masters of just one, the Twos are meant to master them all." And the way they did so was what the problem lay in, but Serios wouldn't tell her that. "The Batarian War is the first time they've been of Sparta in seven years, and they're still only half-way through their training regimen. We've learned a great deal in the time we've had the Ones, and a great deal more post-contact. We're applying all of this to the Twos." Half-truths went a long way, tell enough of the truth to satiate her, but hide right under her nose what she wanted to know, so she wouldn't look for it.

Shepard nodded, her dark green eyes flitting back and forth as she digested the information. When she looked back up, he thought she saw a ghost of a smile on his face, "but, you found this SIGMA after he'd been missing for three months. I think congratulations are in order."

Shepard accepted the hand Serios extended, but acted on her gut. "That isn't all you've called me here for... Is it sir?"

Serios nodded, not surprised at the Captain's wisdom; after all, she had birthed the child, it all couldn't have come from his father, even keeping in mind who and what his father was. "There are two things that come from this encounter. The first being a reward, the second being a warning..." He paused, "which would you rather hear?"

"The worse of the two."

Without hesitation, Serios let it all out. "As I've revealed to you the existence of the SIGMA II program, you are required to stay silent." Serios stated, "even confirming its existence, with what little information I have given you, is enough to get you – bare minimum – life in a military prison for treason." Shepard blinked, and nodded in response. "The good news, however, is news you may already know of.

"You are aware, Captain, that a Carrier, the _Einstein_, is scheduled to be completed and birthed soon, yes?"

Shepard felt her heart slow down, "yes, sir." She said, sitting up a bit straighter.

"As reward for your actions, and your silence, the department of the navy, the Admiral of the fifth fleet, and I myself have seen fit to promote you to the SSV Albert Einstein. Keep your nose clean and stay on course, you might make Rear Admiral in the next decade."

* * *

><p>"During my three month imprisonment on a planet I was unable to chart or identify, I learned that the faction I'd thought were mercenaries were actually a top-secret Special Forces branch of the Turian Military... Codenamed: Spartecs." John continued, after a brief pause to take a sip of water and wet his vocal chords, "I don't know much about their origins, but from what I gathered during late night excursions outside my cell, I learned that they are a combination counter-terrorism branch and black ops organization. Unlike the Cabals, they are charged with dealing with problems foreign and domestic, and no one is supposed to know about them, explaining why they kept me prisoner."<p>

"What else did you learn about them?" Ducard inquired.

"They hadn't expected to take a Human prisoner." John explained, "they interrogated me constantly for information, but did not get any farther than my name and serial number." John paused for a split second, "however, I have reason to believe that they – through blood work – were able to ascertain my age and... Origins."

"Explain."

"I only took two trips to the base's medical wing, but each time I was privy to a conversation between the Company Commander and their head medic. Each time they were discussing me, and the last time they almost blatantly said they knew how old I was, and what I was." John paused, "I have reason to believe, however, that the Turians won't do anything with this information, them having mentioned that backlash could be great with information we possess.

"I spent three months trying to learn everything about them I could. While what I know is not much, I did learn about their armor – Benzahn, they call it – and about their shielding units. They are melding Human and Turian shielding tech, essentially creating a Kinetic/Energy Barrier." John summarized, "I also learned that their primary goal for being involved in our war with the Hegemony is to learn our FTL secrets." This caught Ducard's eye quickly, "however, while they have a slight understanding of how we do it, I wiped out any possibility of building it by detonating the kiloton grenade... They estimated I killed about a decade's worth of work, there."

Ducard nodded, relieved but still concerned. "How did you escape?"

"I learned that every six months twelve ships leave the planet, to replace forces, bring supplies, and so on. I waited for the ship to arrive and stowed away. I chose the ship furthest from the base I was in, destroyed their primary long-range communications, and took as many of them out as I could during my escape." John explained, "they eventually got word out across the planet that I was gone, but by that time, the Spartec Ship I was on was too far away to go back. While in FTL I programmed a micro-EMP pulse so I could take out their thruster capability, and when I discovered we were in Alliance Territory, I activated it. They were forced to send out a distress call, and after I felt the ship dock, I waited five minutes before sending a burst-transmission on N7 channels to call for help. The AI found the SOS, translated the morse code, and learned what was going on.

"Following that, Alliance Marines boarded the ship and took it for the Alliance. I was discovered by allied forces, but refused to be taken by them unless I could speak to their Captain. The rest, you know." John finished.

"I see..." Said Ducard, writing down the last of what John had said. "Which captain was it? There are many Destroyers, but not too many patrol the non-relay outer colonies."

"She was a captain by the name of Anna Pastor. She passed my test, and I surrendered myself to her care. After which I was kept unconscious and sedated for the entire trip." John honestly had no recollection of when he'd awoken and snapped the arm of the Marine, he'd done it all on instinct.

Ducard felt his heart stop cold. The kid was lying to him, and they both knew it. The kid was testing him, the kid knew something was up, he'd learned something during whatever brief encounter he'd had with Hannah, and he was testing Ducard's reaction - if Ducard called him out, John would challenge him, and the kid was smart enough to back him into a corner if he did so. Hell, the kid already had him in a corner - he was in a no-win situation, because if Ducard didn't acknowledge it, John would know that Ducard had something to hide about that specific captain, and would be prompted to look into it further. Ducard had seen the footage from John's helmet cam - shattered though it may be, the audio recorded perfectly; John had only had sixty seconds, grand total, of interaction with his mother. What had he learned in sixty seconds?

"Latin, sir."

Ducard blinked, "say again?"

"I apologize, I appreciate the language. The name, sir. Anna Pastor. Latin translation for Hannah Shepard. Your translator must not be programmed for a dead language, and I slipped."

John had given him an out, but Ducard decided to go against the grain for the moment. "Why did you slip?"

"As I said, sir, I appreciate the language. I also have an affinity for German, Spanish, Russian, Mandarin, and Thessian Standard." He said, _"ardat dala'san niir ho-ya."_ 'The demon tongue that unites us all'.

Ducard was now completely certain that John was playing him, and unless he wanted to make things a hundred times worse, there was nothing he could do. "I see." He looked down and made a note on the report - _Made contact with Hannah Shepard._ That 'language' play was just him gloating, Ducard was tempted to think, but the II's never gloated, even amongst themselves in their perceived privacy, they just didn't see the point. So if he wasn't gloating, what _was_ he doing?

"If I may, sir." Ducard looked up, acknowledging the Child Soldier. "What have I missed during my imprisonment?"

Ducard thought a moment, and placed the tablet down. "We are on the verge of victory. The long and short of it is the Batarians are no Turian Hierarchy, we applied our tactics, we froze planets from the rest of the galaxy, we liberated them." He explained, his eyes betraying none of his emotions. "But they've pulled some surprises of their own."

"Such as?"

"The Warp Gate you found wasn't their only attempt at reverse-engineering our technology. By some miracle, they figured out how to make mock-up versions of our ships. Pratr vessels, they call it. Thicker armor, tougher weapons, better engines, the works." He explained, "we have no proof, but rumors have flown that they've even bought Rebel ships in exchange for weapons and material. The fact is, they've got our naval tech, though thankfully they can't reproduce our FTL for these ships, which means these ships need Element Zero cores the size of trucks to function optimally, and given their mass, they need a lot of it. In other words, while they have a good fighting force, they can't use it for much - it's too expensive to deploy them on the frontlines. I'd wager that ninety five percent of the ship's cost lies in its eezo core, they would have to be massive in order to propel a ship our size to lightspeed."

"How has our navy fared against the Mock-Ups?"

"Not bad, but it's essentially a repeat of any naval engagement with the rebels: Who strikes first strikes hardest. Our shields are tougher, our weapons better, and our armor well-made, but if they hit us first, we will take losses."

"What about losses on the ground?" John knew there wasn't much else he could learn about the naval side of things - and besides, they were supposed to be super soldiers, not super sailors. When it came to naval engagements, the best SIGMAs could do would be to act as tacticians and advisors to the Captain, only one SIGMA in history had ever used his influence to take command of a naval vessel, and he eventually retired to the navy to command that very ship up until its destruction at the beginning for the Battle for Earth.

"We don't take many wounded home. Batarian military weapons are designed for brutality... Like explosive hollow point rounds." Ducard explained, "last casualty count was around a hundred fifty thousand on our end... and a quarter of a million on their end, not counting slave casualties." Ducard quickly elaborated, "Our technology is better, but they send their slaves in droves to soften us up."

"Wave tactics."

"Exactly. And when they figured out we were specifically not shooting people with collars, they wised up real fast and started sending hordes of slaves without collars against us, and used the subsequent battles as anti-Alliance propaganda for Council Support. No such luck, yet."

"Yet?"

Ducard ignored the question for now, "we're still evacuating slaves, but so far as we know we've got slaves numbering in the upper hundreds of millions, if not the lower billions. Worse, we're getting tens of thousands more added to the census each passing day." He explained, "but we've already killed tens of millions of them... The Batarians literally throw them at us unarmed, no armor, no protection, to be shredded by our fire.

"But, the Council has largely been quiet about things. This could go either way, but in the end, we're focused on ending this war before we start the next one. Leading me into my next point: We're amassing the fleets, several months ago – when the Batarians first introduced us to Mock Up ships – they took several ships from us and enslaved the crews. We've tracked them down to a moon-based outpost for slave smuggling, intercepted communications told us that selling said slaves is proving to be difficult for them, as a lot of Hegemony Slavers are wary of taking them... For obvious reasons." The veteran couldn't hold back a grin.

"Am I going to be participating?" John asked, a grin not appearing on his own face, a fact that Ducard noted.

The commander nodded, "imprisonment or not, there's a war going on and we need your skills, especially for a besieging this large-scale." Ducard explained, "in three days all of the fleets will be in position, within a ten minute warp jump, to strike at Torfan. We're planning on having a massive scale blitzkrieg, because this moon isn't a hub-world like the ones we've invaded thus far. The plan is, SIGMA One Teams will go in for the Human slaves, while simultaneously, planet-wide, our naval forces bombard the planet from orbit. A six minute sustained assault, first by space-to-surface missiles, then by MAG strikes, then joint SIGMA, OD3, N7, and Marine assaults."

"What will we be doing?"

"Essentially, we – the Ones and the Directors – want to see the Twos undertake a SIGMA Siege." Ducard said bluntly, "your brothers have already been briefed, but you'll be storming a large series of bases. High population density, primarily thieves, slavers, and smugglers, weapons free. Your goal is to eliminate the enemy, no survivors."

John nodded, he knew what a SIGMA Siege was: An attack, massive in scale, carried out solely by SIGMA Forces. "No survivors." He reiterated, to Ducard's nod. "Is there anything I need to know?"

Ducard shook his head, "I will let you know if there is, but until we get there, get some rest, eat some food, and try to build your muscle-mass back up." He ordered firmly, "we don't get prisoners of war often, but if and when they make it back, they get no preferential treatment, so you will be no different. Am I understood?"

"Sir, yes sir." John sprung to his feet and fired off a salute.

* * *

><p>There was an incalculable distance between John S2-15 and the Batarian High Chancellor, who sat in his personal office on the one and only Batarian Homeworld. High Chancellor Seriul Hoorn could almost feel his skin aging through the stress of the Humans and their War. Six colonies had fallen to the Humans, and though, by all reports, their fleets were already moving away, having taken the colonies entirely; the only reason they were still in Batarian territory was because they'd promised to remove not only Human, and not only Quarian, but every last slave from the afflicted colonies. He growled, already the Batarian economy was beginning to suffer, he was beyond glad that the Credit was a galactic currency, and therefore the inflation would be nowhere near as worse as it would be if the Humans had done something like this to the Council proper, but still, trade and travel within the Hegemony's borders had all but grinded to a halt, and the only things coming in were the Council's 'aid packages' and 'warfare care packages', though Hoorn had seen through that immediately.<p>

The Council, in their infinite wisdom, had figured out that the Alliance wanted only to war with Batarians. He would give the Council far more credit than the Humans did, they were wise, but the fact remained that they did not want to war with the Humans directly, so in effect, they were waging a proxy-war against them, using the Batarian Hegemony as their meat shield.

The growling, stressed, and livid High Chancellor had to give the Council one thing, their moves were wise. Through the Batarians, they were testing the Humans, seeing just how much power they possessed, and how much was boastful claims, and nothing more. It still angered him, however, that all he and his kind got from the Council, in the form of military aid, were weapons, decommissioned ships, and the lightest of Special Forces intervention in only the most important of battles - which didn't make a difference in the end, any battle the Alliance couldn't win with bodies, they would win with orbital weapons _and_ bodies.

Currently, the Council's greatest contributions were of the ships they were giving them. Weapons they had plenty of, and food was very easy to divert to warfronts, but ships was something the Hegemony needed. Even with their massive technological advantage, anything – even a god – could be conquered by pure, raw, and simple numbers. The Chancellor knew not where to send the ships, however, the colonies the Humans had hit were the only ones with Humans on them. The only other place in the galaxy with enslaved Humans was Torfan, but that moon was outside of Hegemony territory, so for all the Chancellor cared, it could burn while he made new Pratr ships, and repaired the decommissioned Citadel ships.

He blinked, and looked up. His office was dark, the only source of light being the terminal right in front of him, and the moonlit sky shining in pale white light from the open window to his left, this only illuminated a small section of his carpeted floor and a bare amount of his walls, the rest of his office was in darkness.

_Wait..._ The Chancellor looked to the window, it was open open, the window was wide open and a breeze was flowing through it. He'd only opened the blinds, to let the light in; _who opened the window?_

"Greetings and salutations, High Chancellor." A light voice, not at all like the deep voice of a Batarian, suddenly said; despite the voice's low volume and even tone, it broke the silence of the Chancellor's office like a hand cannon.

The Batarian's hand closed around a real hand cannon, but he froze when he felt the barrel of a gun press up against his head. The figure holding the gun decloaked, revealing its seven and a half foot tall frame, armored figure, and mean, masked gaze. The Batarian recognized the figure just as he recognized the voice.

_"You."_ Hoorn's voice quivered with anger.

The Mysterious One stepped forward, his face blank. Even so many years after they had last corroborated, he hadn't changed a single bit. His hair was still short, still a color-absorbing black, still slicked back. His skin was still pale white, his suit still dark gray, and his eyes – which the Batarian couldn't help but look away from – were still dark green orbs that put one emotion into anyone who looked into them: Fear. The man in front of him – and he was a man, not a Batarian, but a man – carried himself, and spoke with such authority that anyone who interacted with him felt utter fear when they looked into his eyes. Looking into The Mysterious One's eyes only gave one promises of a life lived in ever-continuous hell, and a slow, arduous, agonizing death should one cross him.

"I don't quite like your tone, Sir Hoorn." Said the Mysterous One, his voice calm, his tone level, not too loud and not too quiet. "I would expect a little more respect -" The bastard soldier disappeared, cloaked, and Hoorn felt the gun move away from his head. "- Especially since I not only secured your re-election so many years running, but I also gave you what you so desperately wanted, so many years ago: Human and Quarian slaves."

Hoorn slammed his fist on his desk, _"you gave me -"_

"Watch your tone, Sir Hoorn." The Mysterious One warned, his voice deadly serious, but his tone still level. "You would do well to speak to me with respect and cordiality."

The Batarian growled, "you gave me_ nothing_ Human. Nothing but death, destruction, and war."

"Oh contraire." Said the Mysterious One, "when we met upon the _Vengeance,_ I told you I could show you a foolproof way to get Human Slaves. I explained to you the Alliance Colonization Charter, and showed you exactly where to put deniable pressure on the Alliance, so the lonely Mindoir would be without immediate defense." He said, face still devoid of any emotion. "The war that followed, followed because you failed to heed my warnings: Leave no trace of the Hegemony's involvement.

"I told you the Alliance would find out if you left any trace, even the smallest inter-office correspondence. And they did."

The Batarian's scowl turned into a leer, seething with hatred. "You told us that if we did exactly what you said, we would not_ – could not –_ be caught!"

"You said it yourself. _Exactly... What... I... Said."_ The Human taunted. "It is not my fault you are as foolish as you look."

The Batarian could tell the Human was goading him, but he would not give the Human and his bastard soldier the pleasure of a reaction. "Speak your piece, Human, I have much work to do."

"As I speak the Alliance is making ready to end the war, with an all out blitzkrieg on Torfan." The Mysterious One explained, "they are merely days away from finishing their slave evacuations from your planets, after which they will return the relays and give you back the contested territory."

"Why do you tell me this?" Asked a bristling Chancellor, not aware that the Human was grinning, because he hadn't refuted his words.

"Because we must discuss our next steps."

"_Next steps!?"_ The Batarian demanded, "No! We are _done!_ I do not work for you, I did once and it ended with death and destruction!" He leapt to his feet, his gun in hand, and now it was pointed at the unflinching Human. "_Now you will leave my -_" He froze mid-sentence, eyes wide in shock and fury.

Where there had once been a dark, empty office room, now his office was filled to the brim with bastard soldiers in power armor. Each one had a weapon, each one was pointed at him, each one was a single movement away from turning him into Batarian paste.

Hoorn looked from the emotionless, soulless visors of the Bastard Soldiers to the Mysterious One, and blanched at the look on his face. Instead of the blank expression, there was disappointment and, horrifyingly, cold fury on his face.

"Now, Hoorn, _you_ listen to _me."_ One weapon went off, the gunshot as quiet as the breeze outside. Hoorn's weapon flew from his uninjured hand, and a second later he felt a hand on his chest, he was slammed back into his chair. "When the war ends... I want you to look for something. This object, this... Satellite, is older than every society currently in existence... Humans… Tentatively... not included.

"When you find this object, you will discover something. This discovery will be of a species, far less amiable than the Krogan, but far more manipulable. These people cannot yet leave their home system, but with a little... Guidance... They could be taken from where they are, to a galactic level. And with their penchant for war, they could be exactly what you need to combat the Alliance... To regain the Hegemony's lost honor."

Hoorn repressed a growl, as much as he did not want to admit it, he was intrigued. "This... Satellite... Is it a probe from this species?" He asked.

The Human smiled, "you could not be more wrong." He sat down in a chair that was pulled up by one of his bastard soldier. "Get comfortable, Chancellor, this is a long one."


	30. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

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><p><em><em>"_Anyone who said they were not afraid of going over the top is a god damn __**liar.**_."

_~ Anonymous World War 1 Veteran._

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><p><em>July 9th, 2216<em>

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><p>The reunions had been quick, John mused. He sat silently in the red-lit bowels of a troop-transport shuttle, elbows rested against his armored legs, hands clenched together, and head leaned up against them. Seeing them now, after the brief break in contact, it seemed to John that all of the II's - himself included - had aged in the last three months<em>,<em> the very same way a bright-eyed private would enter war innocent, in a manner of speaking, would come home a dull-gazed recluse after seeing untold amounts of death. But the II's hadn't become reclusive, or post traumatic, but rather they carried themselves a different way. Before they had begun their deployments in the Batarian War, they had been innocent in their own, unique way, and had wanted nothing more than to prove themselves to the Ones, but now? Now it seemed that the periods of time between fights were exactly that - brief respites, breaks, during which they simply waited for the next fight to come around. This hadn't been apparent to John – who could positively claim he'd aged as well, just in a different sort of way – until they'd seen that he, in fact, _was_ alive, and was ready to plunge right back into hell with little rest.

John hadn't expected any sort of celebrations, and if he were to be honest, what he'd gotten had been exactly what he _had_ expected: Those that knew him directly – they being Delta Company – gave him a hug and congratulated him on surviving so long, those that knew him indirectly gave him a hearty handshake; several had even mentioned that stories of John's battle against the Batarians on Siler had made their way around the Army, though he dismissed that much, the op had been largely dark, so how could the Army have gotten wind of it?

Now, John sat in the transport cabin in the shuttle that had just taken off from an Alliance Carrier, stationed in orbit. For hours, the navy had bombed and shelled the places of strategic importance in the planet. Hand of God Satellites, Magnetic Accelerator Gun strikes, even a few dozen Space-to-Surface missiles had been launched with the explicit goal of softening up the planet's defenses, they wanted to be done with this place and this war by the end of the week. The only places on the planet that hadn't been scarred by the Alliance's prelude to invasion were the areas of the planet that either had no Batarians, or the ones that were confirmed to have Humans. John knew that the Human evacuations were something the Alliance could _not_ afford to botch, and even though the II's were good, they weren't SIGMAs, not yet, and not officially - they still had a good four years of training to go through, which would make their previous seven look like a cake-walk in comparison. This all meant that while the I's, and the N7, rescued the Humans, and the Marines mopped up what was left of the bases and population centers that had been blown to hell, the II's – all six hundred and nine of them – would assault a series of three other bases.

"_You are, essentially, island hopping."_ Ducard and the other Company Commanders had explained during the debriefing, and after everyone had gotten reaquainted with the only SIGMA II Prisoner of War. "_The bases you assault will be hit in order of importance, starting at the lowest end of the food chain and working up to the top."_ John felt the shuttle shudder slightly, as it entered the moon's atmosphere; the jostling temporarily shook him from his reverie. "_Your goal is _total annihilation_, anyone who raises a weapon against you is hostile and should be treated as such. Alliance Intelligence has long since confirmed it - there are no civilians on this planet, only potential and likely only thing that has changed since the initial briefing is that Arcturus wants us to spare anyone who surrenders, so if rifles go to ground, your bullets go elsewhere."_

After which they had been given their intel - expected troop numbers, casualty predictions, the works. Once or twice, unbidden, John had found himself thinking back to the events on the Turian planet and those in the bowels of the Spartec ship. The Captain he'd met, Shepard, there was something about her voice he wasn't able to place. He'd hadn't been able to get a good look at her from behind his shattered visor, but he had managed to catch a glimpse of green eyes, and a voice that held warmth in its professional tone. Hearing her speak had made him know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he would make it home to Sparta, but what confused him was _why_ hearing her speak gave him those thoughts. He'd already known he was getting home - the ship had been cleared out by the Alliance, after all. So what about _Shepard_ made him feel safe? Why did she make him feel safe? How did he even know what safety felt like? Perhaps the most important question - why did her voice sound familiar? Had he met her on Mindoir? Or on Earth? He'd had frustratingly little contact with anyone off of Sparta, so hearing a voice that sounded familiar was, in a word, dumbfounding.

John was once again shaken from his reverie, as the silent void of space gave way to the deafening roar of the shuttle's engines in-atmosphere. "_Two minutes!"_ John heard the Air and Space Force pilot shout, deftly maneuvering it in and out of the line of orbital, suborbital, and terrestrial fire. Even though the Batarians had been shelled to hell, they still had military capability, and though it was limited, they were able to scrape together some anti-aircraft fire, both of the ballistic and directed-energy kind. Explosions, shrapnel, and bright bursts of light and slagged metal filled the sky, turning it from its native yellowish color to the hellish red that was largely synonymous with war and chaos; John knew he'd have to get used to it soon, it would be very unlikely he'd ever see a real sky that wasn't fiery red unless he was on Sparta, or conducting a night-raid.

John's Heads Up Display was synched up with the eight other SIGMA II Trainees in the shuttle, he could see what they saw, and if he cut the video links, he could still see the faint, almost undetectable blue lines that showed exactly where they were looking. John saw, through usage of his optimized armor's many, varied bio-communications systems, that no one on the shuttle was anxious in the slightest. The eight other SIGMAs were either waiting, cleaning their weapons, or – in Craig's case – _sleeping. _The SIGMA II trainee was literally sleeping through the deafening noise that was reentry. There was no anxiety at all about the upcoming battle,though John knew the opposite to be true, he'd lived around these boys long enough to see their ticks. Everyone was scared of war, afraid to fight, terrified of dying, what separated a SIGMA - or, truly, any career soldier - from everyone else was their ability to compartmentalize, to not let the fear get to them when the going got tough. They didn't shut the fear off entirely, no, it was that animalistic fear of death that often proved to be the split-second, instinctual reaction that was the difference between surviving an attack and succumbing to it.

John closed his eyes, he felt the anxiety forming a pit in his stomach. There was the almost imperceptible flutter in his heart, the adrenaline-like feeling of fear in his heart. He allowed the fear to drown him, for five whole seconds he could feel the unending, crippling feeling of _fear,_ in its truest and most raw form, filling his every orifice, his every sense. But when the fifth second passed, he exhaled, and just as quickly as oxygen fled his lungs, the feeling of fear fled his system. The inhale afterwards brought back the oxygen, but instead of bringing back the intense fear, the new breath of air now brought with it determination. John _would_ complete this mission, he _would_ survive to fight another day, and if he could help it, he _would_ become a true-bred SIGMA II Operative.

_I will fight so no one else feels the pain of loss._ John thought.

"_One minute!"_

_I will fight so no other soldier under my command is taken by the enemy._ He retrieved his rifle from his lap. _By god... By species... By my rifle... I will kill the enemies of mankind._ He looked up, he saw the same sense of determination in the SIGMA Teen right in front of him; neither needed to remove their helmets to see it, they could say everything they had to with just a glance of their inhuman, golden visor.

When the shuttle lurched to a halt, the child soldiers rose to their feet as one. Soon, the bay-door began opening, allowing the unfiltered light of the desert moon to spill into the shuttle, and they all turned towards it. When the shuttle bay door opened entirely, and the harsh gusts of wind brought with it sand, unfiltered air, and heat, the nine SIGMA II's rushed outside.

Torfan was, according to the debriefing, half desert, half desert-forest. The only water that existed on this planet existed because of an asteroid collision several million years ago, and since Torfan was within the habitable zone, the water the asteroid had brought was enough to kick-start life on the moon. John had an entire three seconds to survey his surroundings. In his immediate vicinity were dozens of Alliance shuttles, all landing and bringing with them many of the Alliance's second-generation Augmented Elite. The ground underneath them was a loose, shifty, beige-colored sand, being picked up and tossed into the air by the helicopter blades of the shuttles. It was thicker and coarser than the sand on Earth, but finer and less heavy than the sand on Sparta, with a dark tan color to provide an even worse visual mask, though the II's' HUDs all helped to minimize the blindness.

A look to the Solar-East, the direction East would be if the local star was North, showed John the ruins of an enormous military installation. For a moon populated almost entirely by thieves, crooks, con-artists and killers, the level of construction he saw was something to behold. The stone-made military base had, at one point, had an outer wall, but the wall John and the SIGMAs had landed south of was destroyed and in ruins, but his enhanced eyesight and his visor's zoom-feature showed Batarians, Vorcha, and even a Krogan or two crawling around the ruins like ants, stumbling about rubble and trying to make a defensive line, desperately and quickly making ready to face the Alliance's augmented war machine.

"_Alpha Squad, move!"_ John ordered, before he keyed into the suit-to-suit frequencies, his voice being broadcast to all SIGMAs in the vicinity, "_SIGMAS, MOVE!"_ He roared, energizing the SIGMAs and needlessly reminding them of what they were here to do.

Over in the desolate military base, one Batarian Sniper with thick yellow skin and a deep gash on his forehead would urinate himself at the sight his magnetic scope provided. Where once there were simply dozens - No! _Hundreds -_ of metallic signatures standing and getting their bearings, soon, one began running, one was joined by two, was joined by ten, and suddenly each and every single augmented, power-armored Human being was running at them, full-tilt. Out of panic, the Sniper pulled the trigger, missing by a mile and pre-emptively beginning the fight that would eventually claim his life, and the lives of each of his surviving friends.

"_Sniper fire!"_ John heard someone call out, as a mass accelerated round buried itself into the sand behind the advancing line of SIGMAs.

"_Craig -"_ John began.

"_I've got it!"_ John got over the team-comms, and without breaking stride, Craig leapt forward into a dive, and when he rolled to a kneeling position, his rifle was shouldered, and after a second, his anti-material round shot forth with a crack like localized thunder. The shockwave of the bullet leaving the barrel kicked up more dust around the SIGMA Sniper, and the dust and sand was picked up by the howling winds and began buffeting the boy as he scanned for any more snipers, no-doubt ordering his suit to sync up with the other snipers so they could get a far wider field of view. "_Kill confirmed!"_

"_Krogan charging!"_ He heard George call out, as several Krogan began charging head-long to the rapidly approaching falsely-armored warriors.

"_Machine gunners, set cover and open fire!"_ John ordered into the public comms. "_Heavy weapons, set up your mortars! I want smoke downrange!"_

He got confirmations, and in seconds dozens of cover-spheres were deployed, and the myriad of heavy machine gunners – George not included – set up behind them, before they unleashed conventionally accelerated hell upon the defending, wounded enemy forces; behind the machine gunners were the boys who'd brought portable mortar launchers, they had a myriad of munitions to go with it, but as this base was largely dead and so were its inhabitants, they settled for smoke - it was a very safe bet that most of the Batarians here didn't have thermal or magnetic vision, and whoever was left was too wounded to focus on their any of their senses to find the SIGMAs. Two Krogan fell to the gunfire, as the thunderous cracks of mortar rounds being launched to the air tried and failed to drown out the staccato of gunfire. The other Krogan suffered wounds too casual, or were missed entirely, and they didn't do what the Batarians and Vorcha behind them did, they didn't leap to the ground for cover, they simply charged faster and roared louder, something within them telling them it was time to die, so they might as well go down swinging like their ancestors.

The two offensive lines collided harder than two football teams, John himself got slammed by a particularly nasty looking Krogan with green plates and one eye. The seven foot tall Human was undaunted, he called upon Vi-Contactus to win this battle. With one heavy swing, John's warp-assisted punch to the throat shattered the Krogan's shields and stumbled him, a hammer-fisted smash to the chest sent sent the Krogan back a few inches, and with a particularly debilitating front kick, the Krogan was sent back just far enough to be stunned long enough for John to raise his special forces rifle and bury four rounds in his skull, and one biotic flare devastated his head in a shower of blood and gore, for good measure.

When he confirmed the kill, John didn't hesitate, he was already moving as the Krogan's body started obeying the mating call of gravity. He caught the body and sailed forward with it, using it as a meatshield, deflecting and absorbing the rounds that hit it. With one hand holding the several hundred pound Krogan aloft, the other hand stuck his rifle underneath the Krogan's arm, all the while he kept moving forward, not even flinching as either the Krogan or he himself took rounds during his advance. John fired suppressively as he ran forward, and when his foot hit stone, he blasted the body away with his biotics – noting with pride the chain reaction the biotic detonation caused when it collided with several other bodies.

John sank to one knee, raised his rifle, aimed, and fired, two Batarians fell to his weapon as he unleashed conventionally accelerated death. His HUD flared after a few moments, informing him his shields were reaching a crisis point, that he'd taken a few rounds to the thighs and one to the gut, and also letting him know that more SIGMAs were on the way, so he rolled in to cover and laid prone, weapon aloft, waiting for his shields to recover. He called out he was throwing a grenade and, with assistance from his thermal-vision, he peered into the massive smoke-screen and threw the grenade at a cluster of several enemies, all of whom were firing blindly into the smoke, praying they would hit something. As his friends and allies caught up with him, the grenade exploded, sending a shower of white-hot shrapnel up and about. When his shield bar flashed once to indicate he was full and ready to go, he leapt up and and was on the move again. He thundered up the inclined slope of rubble, killing a Vorcha with a bullet to the brain, before the creature even knew he was there and could have shot him with its pistol.

"_John, Drop!"_ He heard Craig call out, John didn't second guess the sniper and dived forward, leaping straight to the ground the second the word had left the teenage sniper's lips. He heard two thunder cracks later, and Craig told him it was okay to get up.

John felt a bruise form on his jaw from where he'd hit the ground, but he ignored the pain as he climbed the apex of the mountain of rubble. Beyond him, and through the thermal view on his visor, he saw a vast expanse of destroyed barracks, mess halls and other such small, mundane military buildings. There wasn't a single building standing, and for every hot, living being in this base, there were at least three rapidly cooling corpses to count for it. The aliens outnumbered the SIGMAs, but they were clearly outmatched by their opponents, a fact which their panic and fear didn't help at all.

John looked up and saw, on the wall farthest from him, a Batarian. What caught his attention about this specific Batarian was the defiant look in his eyes, the angry scowl on his face, and the bold way in which he stood upright and exposed despite being clearly under assault. He wore armor signifying him as a man of rank, and when John zoomed in on the man, he saw a scowl decorating his face.

For the man's stupidity in leaving himself exposed, John aimed his rifle and fired. He didn't know what the Batarian expected, but he gave him what he deserved, and killed him with a burst of gunfire. The way John saw it, there was an officer standing out in the open, whose facial expressions clearly indicated no intent to surrender - so killing him when he had the chance would put the newly made cadaver's forces into disarray, and make the job easier on the Humans. John watched the man's corpse fall to the ground before he joined his brothers. He lept forward a few feet - taking care not to put any real power behind his jump, lest his muscle suit send him clear to the other side of the base - and upon impact, slid down the rubble hill, keeping his footing only just, before he hit the ground running. His HUD let him know, just as he sprinted forward and slammed his arm into the throat of an unprepared Batarian, that a few dozen green dots were practically flying across the battlefield and were heading for the other side of the base; either someone had had the same idea as John and had decided to act upon it, or those boys had underestimated their power and had leapt too far and with too much strength. Regardless of their reasoning, they adapted instantly and, upon landing, whipped around and began setting up a crossfire, John executed the Batarian he'd clothes-lined and took up a run again. John killed one more Batarian before he and his brothers got into cover, the Batarians, still in disarray, started mounting desperate defenses, digging in in groups of five or six, with no chain of command available to help them mount any proper defense.

John heard the rounds impact in the rubble he was using as cover. He killed his own thermal imaging and brought up a Sub-orbital UAV feed, instead using its own thermal imaging mode. The UAV showed John that the attack was working, the Batarians were confused, they were panicked, and they were focusing upon the three hundred II's that were attacking from the west. John sent a quick, non-vocal message to the secondary attack force, and saw as three hundred more heat signatures suddenly appeared from further to the east, and began storming the base from the north.

"_Two-fifteen. Two-Eighty Two here, I just got off the horn, the Carrier's sending down a fighter drone, sending you the control-codes."_ Craig's voice came in.

"_Copy!"_ John responded, as he broke cover.

Some of the Batarians seemed to be learning that they outnumbered the Humans, and thus they were starting to act cocky, thinking they were the exception to the rule. Some of them were simply walking to the SIGMA's offensive line, guns fired from the hip as they suppressed the Humans. John took down two of the dumber Torfan mercenaries before he felt several rounds hit his shields, they were at the cusp of shattering just as John got back behind cover.

John took control of the fighter drone, his Smart Watch allowing him to do so without the need for other, bulky controllers. His HUD synched up with the UAV and he saw it came equipped with a machine gun and six missiles. John wasted no time, three missiles were locked onto the slavers with heavier weapons and were summarily fired, taking down one AA gun and two clusters of enemies. The machine gun now spurred to life, tearing into the Batarians from above, and just as they started taking cover so they could locate and destroy the UAV, the SIGMAs from the East arrived.

In mere minutes the Batarians were caught in an incredibly deadly crossfire, fire from the front, the back, and even above were tearing into their numbers, the only place they weren't being fired on from was below, but that wasn't through lack of trying - John had actually asked Ducard if they could appropriate any Digger units to assist in their attack. Fear, terror, and a plethora of profane alien language began running rampant as the slavers realized that their strength in numbers meant exactly nil, and the SIGMA II's burned through the rest of the Batarians after an hour of conflict. Some may call the astonishingly quick battle an anticlimax, but others would just be thankful they survived the fight.

There was a white-noise of activity as SIGMAs all over the base checked any fox-holes or standing rooms, or anything that could be hidden in. No one was taking charge, at least, not on the large scale; squad-leaders were throwing out orders and there was some inter-squad and inter-company communications running, but everyone was just running on auto-pilot as the smoke cleared, the dust settled, and the bodies began their decomposition process. John, after making sure his skin-suit was properly grown into an injury on his left bicep, and ensuring that none of his other injuries were life threatening, stood up to take a look around. The base was still in shambles, and while, to anyone else from any other branch of the military, the skill with which the mission was accomplished would have made for another story to turn to legend, John saw only mistakes that could be improved.

These improvements would have to come later though, right now they had a timeframe to keep - Command wanted them to clear the strongholds as fast as they could, and the war to be over within the week if at all possible, so come hell or high water, the SIGMA II's would make damn-sure they did their part to make the end of the war as expedient as possible._._ "_Check your injuries!"_ John ordered his comrades over the local shortwave, taking charge where no one else was. "_We have five minutes before we move! The next stronghold is fifteen kilometers to the planetary northwest!"_

He received acknowledgments from acting Company-Commanders, who relayed orders to their squad leaders, who relayed orders to their squads, and in scant seconds the teenage warriors were working like a well-oiled machine, the injured taking care of themselves whilst the uninjured squads scoured the ruins, making doubly sure no one was still alive, and executing any of the stragglers. John checked himself over, he had taken one round in the arm, as he'd seen before, but the skin suit had already grown into it, staunching the bloodflow. His largely impromptu armor had taken some significant fire, and some of the paint had been blasted off, but aside from that, he was no worse for wear. He adjusted the slightly loose chest-plate and turned to his Alphas.

"Alpha squad, status check." John said, upon arriving at the small section of Torfanian land that SIGMA II Alpha Squad had claimed as their own.

"Took a slug to the leg." George reported, "not bad enough to warrant cell fluid, but I'm keeping an eye on it." He patted the shredded, blood-stained fatigues, not even wincing behind his helmet.

John nodded, not needing to tell him to make sure there wasn't any shrapnel in the wound, George was smart, he'd already done that. He turned to Craig. "Nothing noteworthy to report, John." Craig said briefly, with a nod. "I am glad to see your vacation did not hamper your abilities."

John allowed him his quip, "gear up, the both of you, we're moving first."

George nodded, knowing John had a plan and trusting him not to question it. He hoisted his machine gun into his arms and checked the large magazine.

"What's the plan?" Craig asked, clamping his sub-machine gun to his thigh and retrieving his anti-material rifle.

"Lesson number one." John trailed off.

Craig nodded, "never expect the same plan to work twice." He quoted his instructor, as he and the the other two II's jogged to the edge of the base.

John nodded affirmative, "The second assault point, they told us that it was some sort of back-water town to the nexus that was the final assault zone. So we can expect much heavier resistance, most likely some urban warfare, and a smokescreen resulting from lot of destroyed buildings."

Craig nodded as they descended the northern wall and made their way out. "What's the plan?"

"The others are marching to the town. We're running." He said, they reached the apex of the rubble-wall and paused to speak. He took one look around the desert surrounding the base, before he found his HUD's objective marker, and pointed them in its direction with his free hand. "Craig, take the SOUAV and send it to the second assault point, that way we'll have an idea of what we're getting into when we arrive." John ordered.

"Understood." Craig clamped his rifle to his back and activated his smart watch without breaking stride.

"Have an idea about how we want to go about this?" George asked as the base behind them grew smaller and smaller, they each sent a thankful thought to whomever it was who created synthetic muscle, even with their augmentations, the speeds at which they were running were largely unobtainable on their own, even with their augmentations; typically, SIGMAs either leapt or ran in their suits, it depended on personal preference and whether or not stealth was something that was paramount to the mission.

"Weather forecasts say it'll rain tonight." John mentioned, his breath not even labored, "so we go in stealth, under the cover of darkness. I want the tallest buildings still standing to be _ours,_ we'll set up sniper's nests in them. Then we'll set up targeting beacons for HOG Strikes, if we do it right, the positions of the strikes will confuse the Batarians, spread them too thin. The Snipers will pick off the spread out groups, and we'll come in and sweep the town and standing buildings for stragglers."

George seemed satisfied with that answer, but one question did pop up in his mind as the three continued running. "Why didn't we look for a sky-car back at the base?"

John looked at Craig over his shoulder, "do _you_ know how to drive?" John asked; he wasn't sure about the other companies, but Delta hadn't yet been taught vehicular warfare, and thus, none of the child soldiers knew yet how to drive. Craig shook his head.

"Point taken." George conceded, and the three fell into silence as they continued sprinting to their next target.

* * *

><p>The trip had taken a total of one hour to accomplish, plus one more hour to find a decent rendezvous point, but now the three members of SIGMA II Alpha Squad were set up and scouting out the town below them. Their own area was a small outcropping, with Craig having situated himself upon a tall rock, his rifle being wedged in the center of a 'V' shape formed by said rock and another one.<p>

"_What have you got, Craig?" _John asked, ripping off a finished tube of food-paste from the induction port on his helmet.

"_Synching HUD."_ Craig responded.

John brought up the HUD Sync, and he saw everything Craig saw, almost exactly as he saw it. Two kilometers to the east lie the town they were to hunt. Once their Heads Up Displays had synced up, John saw a group of plain-clothed mercenaries forming a circular barrier around a man standing in their center. With John's HUD he could see the other hundreds of SIGMA Teens slowly making their way through the city, making ready to execute the plan the Alphas had drawn up an hour earlier.

The man in the center began speaking, Craig spoke into his communicator, and a few seconds later, the audio was routed to the Alpha Squad's communicators through one of the SIGMA Teens in a building with a direct line of sight to the man in the center.

"_- YOU ARE HERE!"_ The Batarian roared, with a voice filled with a sense of authority John could all but tell he'd taken through fear, not earned through respect.

"_Are we compromised?" _Craig asked.

"Only in the same idea as Rebels are compromised on the liberated colonies." John retorted. "They know we're here, but they don't know _where_ here."

"_I will give you TEN SECONDS!"_ The Batarian roared, as a Human and an Asari were dragged out from a shack near him, "_if you do not reveal yourselves, I will execute them both, and call in an orbital strike for the area around the next ten miles!"_

"_Do they know we have orbital supremacy?"_

"Inform the Alliance of possible satellite weaponry." John said to George, "Craig, do you have a shot?" John inched his way up his own stone, his helmet had a good view, but he would need a rifle to get a better one.

"_Negative, too many enemies in the way."_

"_TEN!"_

_He's not consistent._ Thought the child-soldier, "are the enemy contacts wearing armor?"

"_Only the commanding officer in the center."_

"_SEVEN!"_

"And you have no clear shot on him?" John clarified.

"_Affirmative."_

"Rifle." John lifted his hand and caught the barrel of the marksman's rifle from Craig's back. John set the rifle up and zoomed in as far as he could, getting just to the edge of the leader's group.

The Batarian had surrounded himself with several of his subordinates, but this town obviously had a small economy, as only one of them had proper armor and equipment.

_I'll have to make this shot perfectly..._ "Craig, confirm that the plain-clothed contacts are enemies and not slaves."

"_Enemies confirmed." _Craig responded, "_AI database ID's them as members of Merc-groups known to operate in this area…"_ A pause, "_their organizations have ties to Batarian slaver groups. We're go to execute."_

"_FIVE!"_

"SIGMA Twos, plans accelerated, be ready to strike on my signal." John said, taking aim at the Mercenary directly in front of the leader.

_I'll need to strike at the fleshiest part of their body for lowest resistance. _John thought; recalling the lessons on Batarian Biology, he knew that the fleshiest, softest part of the Batarian Body would be located on the part of their body where, relative to Humans, a heart would be located. There were few bones, minimal muscles, mostly flesh, the resistance from said flesh would have minimal effect on John's bullet, allowing it to keep its speed and velocity and pass straight through the Batarian, into the throat of the Batarian behind it.

"_TWO!"_ The Batarian didn't get to 'one', John fired.

Time seemed to slow down as the thunder clap traveled to the town. John's bullet blasted straight through the plain-clothed mercenary, soaring through the shields and then into the throat of the armored Batarian. It had not the energy to exit the Batarian's throat, though this only meant he died faster as the bullet did more damage by bouncing around and getting stuck in his throat. John successfully killed the Leader by shooting him through his ally, and only a second later did the battle begin in earnest, as the SIGMA II's all throughout the town surgically struck at the recognized targets.

John and Craig fired almost in tandem as targets presented themselves, either by fleeing or by breaking from cover to try and enter a building containing SIGMA II's. One thunderclap followed another, each one causing the sick wet slapping sound of a body hitting the ground. For over an hour, John and Craig fired, each time John ran out of bullets, a magazine would be dropped onto his hand and he would fire some more. After a three hour assault, the two found the time between their weapons-fire to be stretching further and further.

With the planet Torfan orbited high in the sky, just about ready to block out the sun and signal night, John and Craig each found themselves tracing the same target.

"_Craig, get Delta Six-Two to confirm target's status, possible he may have bled out." _John ordered his squadmate, as the tenth minute passed and their target hadn't moved an inch.

"_Roger."_ Said Craig, "_Delta Six-Two this is Alpha -"_ When Craig saw the Batarian's head pop up he hadn't even blinked before his finger twitched, pulling the trigger and launching the anti-material round forward at over one and one half kilometers per second. "_2-2, status update."_ Craig hadn't even paused in his speech to fire the round, which after only a few seconds, slammed into the top of the thug's skull, sending a cascade of blood, gore and bits of bone forward.

John didn't grin, it wasn't that he didn't feel proud for his new friend, or that he was mirthful for losing their uncalled contest, he simply didn't see the point in the action, no matter how much the instinct called for it - no one would see it, so why bother? He _did_ set his rifle down, and stretched his muscles as best he could without standing up.

"_Alpha 2-2, status is as follows: Clear town of all hostiles, complete."_ Came the voice of Delta 6-2's squad leader. "_Secure any and all slaves and noncombatants, complete, no noncombatants found alive. Rendezvous at town center, ongoing."_

"_Delta Six-Two, confirm first statement. Town completely cleared of hostiles?" _John could almost tell that Craig was gloating, in his own way.

"_Confirmed, Two-Eighty Two, we just checked."_ Said 6-2's leader, "_good kill."_

"_Understood, stand by." _Craig looked down to John, "what do we do now?" Craig asked.

"Alliance wants this invasion to be done within the week." John began, "so I want our objective completed within five days. Call it: six hours of R and R, half hour watch shifts." John looked down to George, who was cleaning his machine gun. "George, do you feel up -"

"I do." George hefted the miniature, rapid-fire cannon into his arms. "You two get your sleep, I'll wake Craig up in an hour."

John nodded, and crawled back down the rock and shifted around to lay on his back. This rock certainly wasn't the most uncomfortable thing he'd ever slept on before, once on Sparta he'd fallen asleep mostly devoid of clothes on a bed of ice. After he gave Craig back his rifle, and checked over his own equipment, John laid down on the sandy surface underneath the rocks. He stared at the planet above the moon for a few minutes, watching it cross paths with the sun and blanket the moon-colony in darkness, as his own mind slowed down to catch up with his body. He knew this wasn't his first real extended engagement, he'd had Mindoir before this, and that had taken nearly two weeks, whereas this was going to last only a few days, but this still felt different. It didn't feel _bad - _far from it, it felt good to be finally working like SIGMAs were supposed to, even if Marines were completely capable of doing this on their own.

What he craved, however, was a challenge. This all felt well and good, but it was _easy_ compared to training with the Ones. They had had the Mercenary wars and the Turians before them, what was the legacy of the II's? The _Batarians?_ Who in the galaxy actually thought the Batarians to be a threat? No, they were only good to keep the Alliance war machine pumping out innovations, to merely _test_ the skills of the II's-in-training. In John's opinion, a real test would be a deployment on Tuchanka, or maybe a campaign against the Turians - not that he held any prejudices, mind, but he did want to find the mercenaries who'd kept him prisoner for a quarter of a year. Though with those two came mostly the same problem: They had no numbers. The Turians and the Krogan alone had strength aplenty, but the Spartecs numbered in the lower thousands, and the Krogan in the lower tens of millions - and with the latters' tactics, they would barely last through an Alliance orbital assault, let alone a ground war.

Had he had to choose someone specific to challenge the II's, to get their blood flowing, their minds racing, their hearts pumping, to truly test each and every single thing they had learned in their lives, he would honestly say the Geth. Tensions have been brewing up between Humans and Quarians, after all, the Quarians were getting really antsy about the Alliance's non-involvement stance when it came to Rannoch and a possible retaking of Quarian territory. The Humans weren't budging, John remembered being told back before this war had broken out, but the fact still remained - the Geth _were_ still something of a threat. They, out of the whole galaxy, were probably the closest thing to SIGMAs outside of the Turian Ghosts, they had numbers, they had near-zero reaction times, and killing one platform did nothing to the collective as a whole - its master program would just go back to its native server.

Of course, they were machines - and machines could be exploited. Perhaps a true test would come in the form of the Citadel Council, or maybe the Terminus systems. John shook his head and closed his eyes, willing himself to fall asleep. It wouldn't do him any good to fantasize about future fights - they would come to him, he just had to focus on the here and now; and the here and now was sleep until his watch shift.

Besides, he knew in the back of his mind that he would eventually kill someone from every known species by the time he died. Why rush it? He'd get his good fight, all he had to do was wait, follow orders, and not focus on that warm voice and kind tone from the bowels of the Spartec's ship.

* * *

><p>Hours had passed, watches had been shifted, and now the SIGMA II's were on the march. The sun was only an hour away from being unblocked by the planet above them, and the rain was pouring down. The sand beneath them was hard to walk through, but the II's had walked through worse, and thus, they continued moving forward. Their objective was what Ducard and the other Instructors had called 'the Nexus', it was essentially one of the eight points on the moon where Torfan's illegal smuggling was most prevalent. From what Intelligence had provided, this Nexus and six others had been all but barren since the Humans had shown up on the moon, they had sold all of their 'goods' but hadn't been able to take in any more, most likely because no one wanted to do business with a moon that was certainly about to be besieged.<p>

"_Alpha Two-Fifteen, this is Admiral Hackett of the Sixth Fleet, respond."_ A voice came in over the communicator, shattering the still silence of the Torfan Night.

Many others would have taken a moment to blink, or double take, or attempt to separate the voice from reality, to make sure they hadn't sunk into the monotony of a waking nightmare, but John instead answered without delay. "This is Alpha Two-Fifteen, send traffic."

"_Alpha Two-Fifteen -"_ Said the gruff voice of the veteran admiral, "_- UAV Reconnaissance of Nexus Five has just revealed corpses of unknown origin."_

"Interrogative: Define 'unknown'."

"_Unknown meaning our orbital bombardments didn't make them. All Marine, OD3, N7 and SIGMA One detachments say negative to involvement and we have probable cause to believe that it wasn't in-fighting that created the bodies."_ The Admiral explained, "_in light of these facts we want you to be ready for anything. UAV recon isn't getting any life forms, and the only heat signatures are the myriad fires on Nexus Five's western edge."_

John nodded, "Admiral, do we have any suspects for who may have taken out the Nexus?"

"_Negative, Two-Fifteen. We have no -"_ The admiral was cut off, John could faintly hear raised voices on the other end.

George made to speak, but John cut him off, the eerie silence of the Torfan Night, and the white noise of the unending rain served only to make the situation all the more tense. "Admiral?" He sent.

"_Alpha Two-Fifteen, double time, Warp Signatures detected within the boundaries of Nexus Five, possible Rebel Presence."_ The Admiral said quickly, "_radiation readings show no nuclear weapons but Warp Traffic is high, say again: Warp Traffic is high."_

_Either they're bringing something in... Or moving something out._ John thought, _Torfan could be a Rebel staging point, they might get a lot of weapons shipments from here, and now that the Alliance is hitting the place hard, they want to clean house._ "Solid Copy, Admiral, possible Rebel presence in Nexus Five. Alpha Two-Fifteen out." John looked behind him, still marching were hundreds of SIGMA II's, all being cast in the dull aura of rainfall, as it hit their armor and splashed off.

"_Listen up!"_ John called out, his voice broadcasting into the communicators of all present. "_Command has reason to believe the Rebels have a presence in Nexus Five, our target. They want us to get there ASAP, before they escape! Double time, let's move!"_ And with those words, all present broke out into a sprint, and though they all moved far faster than before, not a one of them broke rank during the mad dash.

The march that would have taken three hours took a solid fifteen minutes, once the SIGMA Teens had broken out into a sprint. John had expected devastation when the city came into view, and while he had gotten exactly that, he hadn't entirely expected what he would find. From a distance, the Nexus Five invasion site simply looked like a city that had been placed under mortar fire for the better part of eight weeks: The buildings were shattered, some had toppled entirely, the ground had enormous pock-marks, obviously from where the Kinetic Rods had impacted, and there was an all around air of dread, made all the worse by the city's illumination, both by the raging fire on the city's western side, and the lightning to the north. Had John been a normal Human, he could have compared it to a Hollywood disaster movie, but he wasn't, so he didn't, instead, he scanned the city's skyline with his visor, finding two dozen good points for sniper's nests, both for friendly forces, and not so friendly forces.

"Alright, SIGMAs, I want us to spread out. No more than twenty to a group, no more than three to a squad. We're searching this city, I want to know what happened here." He sent the locations for the Sniper's Nests to all present squad leaders, "Snipers in these positions, provide overwatch." He waited a moment and got acknowledgment flags from the squad leaders who had heard him, "Two-Sixty Six, Two-Eighty Two, with me." He ordered, before the three nodded and made their way down into the distant city.

"_Two-Fifteen, I'm not finding any Snipers."_ Craig said, scanning the buildings with his rifle. "_Addendum: Aside from fires, I'm not finding anything that gives off heat... Even the buildings, they're as cold as ice."_

"_It _is _raining."_ George mentioned, as foot hit concrete and the SIGMA Teens passed through the city's limits.

"_I don't think the rain has anything to do with it. Matter of fact, the rain is rather hot, compared to Spartan and Earthen rain, it's just barely registering on my scope."_ Craig mentioned, "_but when it hits a building, nothing."_

"Keep your rifles raised, SIGMAs." John said, silencing the two, "I don't think we're alone here." What John and the other SIGMAs had no idea of knowing was that his statement rang entirely true, far more true than he would have liked, as evidenced by the sniper scope aimed directly at his Titan Helmet.

From the building the sniper was perched, he had a full field of vision over the entire Nexus Sight, the only disadvantage being that he was being pelted by the constantly pouring rain. The Sniper stared deeply at the advancing SIGMA Operatives, the finger of a bullet-marked and largely torn and shredded skin-suit pressed against the trigger.

"_No."_ Whispered a voice into the Sniper's communicator, "_Overlord's Orders: The SIGMAs aren't to be touched."_

"_Confirmed."_ Said the Sniper, "_orders?" _He looked back to the invisible figure behind him, whose outline was made visible by their synced HUDs.

"_Overlord doesn't want any casualties on their end, it'll draw attention, so we have to work around them. We need to extract."_

"_Another Entry Point will be sure to alert them to our position, and he doesn't want our tech to reach the Dog's ears, yet... How do you propose we extract?"_ The Sniper asked, looking back through his scope, as he felt the rain cascade onto his back, each raindrop feeling like a small BB falling onto his armor and rolling off.

Several minutes passed, as the two Snipers sat in their den, trying to come up with a solution to their problem. Finally, the Sniper spoke, "_how much electromagnetic interference does a Kiloton Grenade create?" _He asked, visibly moving his rifle as he adjusted his aim, to look at something the Spotter could not.

"_Not anything enough to mask warp-rads." _The Spotter responded, staring at the advancing Twos, they were just reaching the battlegrounds where the others had just left, via localized warp to Destination Omni.

Silence, "_but what if it detonated alongside a full-blown EMP? Could it -"_

"_Contact."_

"_What do you see?"_

The Spotter was silent for several moments, "_Cerberus."_

"_How did they find us?"_

"_They've got one damn intuitive man on their side." _The Spotter said, absently. "_But we must wonder, are they here for us, or their 'Vanguard'?"_

"_It's got to be us, Torfan wouldn't piss off any big players, so it wouldn't serve useful for their Vanguard project." _The Sniper said, "_this could be our break."_

"_Elaborate."_

"_We instigate a fight between the SIGMAs and the Operatives... This will reveal Cerberus' existence to the Alliance, and given our intercepted comms chatter, they'll be pinned as allies to the rebels... The Alliance will hunt down their best and only friends."_ The Sniper explained, setting his sights down on a lone Cerberus operative, "_and Cerberus will know that Overlord knows about them."_

"_It's a risky move."_

"_But the battle between the... Six hundred plus SIGMAs and twenty five Dogs will mask our escape."_ The Sniper's finger rested on the trigger, "_just say the word."_

The Spotter stared at the Cerberus Operatives for a few seconds. Shorter than the SIGMA Operatives by a good foot and a half, the Cerberus Operatives made up for their size and numbers differences with raw firepower. Their 'Intuitive' benefactor, Christopher McGraw, had certainly spared no expense when it came to outfitting his little toys, the Spotter could see at least three weapons he couldn't readily recognize, and one that he could, but just barely.

The Cerberus Operatives were obviously searching for something, the way they fanned out and scanned everything in their way. They wouldn't find him or his Sniper, however, they were the only ones left in the entire city, and they couldn't be spotted by anything less than a precision heat-scope, which could only be feasibly fitted onto Recon Satellites.

If the Cerberus Operatives got into a firefight with the SIGMAs, they would most assuredly be killed by them, there was no question about it, the Cerberus Operatives, while good, were nothing compared to veteran SIGMA, which these men certainly al were. The ensuing firefight would reveal to the Alliance Cerberus' wet-work arm, and with the data the Alliance's AI's could salvage, would give hints to their naval power. The specifics of Cerberus' leadership, most specifically Jack Harper and Chris McGraw, would be forever lost to the Alliance, but the implications of Cerberus' existence would get the name blacklisted throughout known space. Or, at the very least, the Alliance would start poking around and looking for answers, and Cerberus would have to batten down the hatches for a few years - halting recruitment for their still _horribly_ meagre excuse for a security force.

In the end, the decision made itself, and when one squad of Cerberus Operatives were within sight of a squad of SIGMAs, the Spotter gave the order: "_Fire, fire!"_ The silent, magnetically accelerated, anti-material round surged forth from the Sniper's rifle at several thousand meters per second.

The round buried itself just a centimeter to the left of one of the SIGMA's outstretched feet, the SIGMA immediately flung himself to the ground, taking cover behind a nearby skycar as his allies turned their rifles to the left, to greet a stunned group of Cerberus Operatives. The SIGMA's surrounding allies all opened fire just as the Cerberus Dogs began retreating, two of the five in their squad were torn apart after their shields were overloaded, and within moments, the battle began in earnest.

From the position the two had, the Sniper and the Spotter could see as the Cerberus Forces were almost universally discovered by the Alliance forces. In minutes, the city was filled with gunfire as the massively numerically superior government forces engaged the black ops soldiers, who gave as good as they got. The Spotter noticed, however, that the SIGMAs seemed to be moving differently than was par for the course, they didn't move as if they had been trained differently, but rather they moved more fluently. Not a single movement was wasted in their battle, each and every movement, action, and decision was meant to be crucial, the way nothing was wasted – not even spent magazines – looked foreign, almost, even to a veteran operative. Had the SIGMAs started training differently?

Spotter decided he would have to bring this up with the Common Man, as he slowly crawled back behind the sniper, and once he was safely inside the ruined building, he retrieved a small silver orb from their tactical operations bag.

One button push was all it took for the Spotter and the Sniper to disappear from the world, as if they had never even existed in the first place. In their wake they left a war steadily on its way to climax, as SIGMA II Recruits fought savagely against clearly outmatched Cerberus Operatives. The SIGMA II's had very quickly learned of their numerical superiority, and almost instantaneously had switched their tactics from defensive retaliation to offensive assault; in so doing, they had forced the battle that would have taken an hour, to finish itself within a quarter of one.

John S2-15 found himself standing above the corpse of a Human soldier. The Human wore advanced, _powered_ armor, with synthetic muscles and skeletal-servos, the whole nine yards, but the colors and weapons were what confused him most. The weapons fired at velocities he hadn't been prepared for, and injuries were being reported all across the battle zones, and the colors, black white and gold, he couldn't recognize them for any military, mercenary, or private military company out there.

John sighed as he felt the chilly feeling of Cell-Fluid running through his veins and the rubbery, stretching feeling of his skin-suit growing into his wounds, the only one of which John felt warranted concern was the one in his left leg, but the cell fluid and the skin suit would keep him on his feet until he got to a medic.

"Area clear." Said George, before he lowered his massive gun and looked at the corpse. "What do you think, John?"

"I think we got lucky..." John said, looking over the readings his smart watch gave him, "these things... Their armor is supposed to self destruct upon user incapacitation... But it's not, and..." John put a round in the head of the Human he stood above, there was no explosion, no reaction, nothing. "They're most certainly dead." John thought a moment, "they aren't Rebels. Rebels don't have this good gear. But they aren't Mercenaries, either. Mercenary gear is meant to be made for intimidation, not function."

"So... Military?" George asked.

"I -"

"Perhaps they're independent." Craig commented.

John looked to the soaked sniper, "how do you figure?" He asked, over the pouring rain and a brief flash of lightning.

"Look at their weapons... Magnetic accelerators... A sort of mixture between Citadel and Human tech. Council weapons made by Human conventions." The child soldier explained, only sparing one glance to the dead Human beneath them. "They aren't mercenaries, they have more funding... Only someone with a lot of money would outfit their operatives with experimental weaponry."

John looked back to the corpse, a minute passed and the gunfire ceased, followed by the confirmation that all contacts were killed. "I want all the corpses gathered up at the Extraction Point. After we finish scouting the town, we extract with the bodies." He said, he received nods from his squad mates, and within minutes they were back on the job, scouting through the town, looking for answers where there were none.

* * *

><p><em>AN:_

_So, has anyone been playing The Phantom Pain?_

_I have. _

_I picked it up on the first, and then the next thing I know, all of a sudden it's today (the fourteenth of September).  
>I regret nothing. <em>

_-PFB_


	31. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

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><p>"<em>Today we may say aloud before an awe-struck world: "We are still masters of our fate. We are still captain of our souls." Winston Churchill<em>

* * *

><p><em><strong>July 2216:<strong>_

_With the successful invasion and besieging of Torfan, all known former-Alliance Civilians, have been successfully removed from Hegemony territory. With the unplanned addition of each and every single other slave, the Human Systems Alliance is put under pressure as it must now deal simultaneously with traumatized Mindoir survivors, and life-bred slaves from within the Hegemony's borders._

* * *

><p>If she had to use one word to describe her daily schedule at the Recovery Clinic on the moon-colony of Mandal, Debora Vanice would use the word 'grinding'. A major in psychology, a doctorate in medicinal practices, and all the veteran-assistance in the galaxy couldn't have prepared her for the grinding experience that was rehabilitating slaves, who had spent varying degrees of their entire lives being force-fed the idea that they were beneath the scum of the earth.<p>

The worst part was, with literally _billions_ of patients, the moon-based colony had almost overnight become a moon-sized mental health clinic. Worse still, was that there weren't enough doctors and psychologists willing to uproot their lives to run off to a suffering moon to help aliens who most likely had no chance of recovering in the first place, even AI's who specialized in psycho-therapy couldn't stem the tide, so there were ten civilian volunteers for every one licensed doctor, and not even half of the volunteers had the patience required for what would be a lifelong uphill battle for these poor people's sanity.

Vanice brushed a stray lock of dark brown hair out from her face, as her assistant called in, saying her nine o' clock was on her way. Vanice nodded and thanked him, before she pulled out the file for the patient she'd been tasked with, for the next hour and a half.

_Saira... Nel..._ Vanice thought, giving the picture of the Asari a once over. _Adopted her master's name as her own... Doesn't even remember her original surname... Slave for three hundred years... _She had already read the file twice at this point, she knew more about the Asari than the Asari most likely knew about herself. What interested Vanice - and subsequently provided the reason for why she, specifically, had been called in for this case - was exactly how the Asari found herself here. According to the file, the Humans who had rescued her hadn't had any reason to believe she would 'act' as she had on the streets of New York. From personal accounts, Vanice had learned that it would have simply taken one pebble to crack the fragile glass that was Saira's mental state, and the sudden introduction to modern city-life had acted like an anvil. The Asari was a resiliant one, though, it had taken an hour and one _particularly_ xenophobic Human for her to crack completely.

The resultant 'incident' had resulted in ten people hospitalized, two more in life-threatening condition, an entire city block blasted apart by wild biotic force, thousands of US dollars in property damage, and her being sent here under military guard. From what Vanice had heard, the soldier who had essentially sneaked her past the slave-screenings had been placed in front of a court martial, though the information on whether or not he had been discharged hadn't been given to her, she didn't need it, yet. She would say, however, that she hoped the man lost a lot more than his job, it took a very specific kind of _fool_ to take a mentally unstable three-hundred year old woman with the ability to manipulate gravity itself, and stick her in the center of the universe.

A timid knock came from the door, and the doctor closed the file. "It's open." She said kindly, her voice light and friendly, but also low and womanly, with a professional air surrounding her and emanating from it.

In came the Asari, who wore the hospital's standard patient-garb: gray sweat-pants, a white T-Shirt, and a pair of one-size-fits-all shoes. Though the Asari had no idea, Vanice knew that the clothes had been specifically selected to create a sort of uniformity, both for 'regular' Human/Quarian patients, and now the 'irregular' Slaves hailing from the Hegemony. This uniformity was meant to make everyone in the hospital feel equal, and even the doctors wore the get-ups, the only thing differentiating the Patients from the Doctors being the light gray overcoats and name-tags the doctors wore.

The Asari stood awkwardly in front of the door, Vanice only needed a second to figure out what the alien was looking for. "You don't need my permission to sit, Saira." She said calmly, "unless you would rather stand." Vanice knew that the most important thing about this rehabilitation clinic was re-introducing the concept of free will to the former slaves, so even if it was small things, like whether or not they wanted to sit, or in what size drink they would like to consume, they had to introduce choice and freedom slowly, in small things first, and then gradually larger. Vanice hadn't seen it herself, but rumor had it that on the moon's southern pole, a Turian had actually _chosen his own dinner._

Saira thought for a moment, before she slowly crept forward to sit down in the chair in front of Vanice's desk. "I am... Afraid I do not understand the purpose of my being here... Doctor… Jillian said… The masters..." She was struggling with the information overload the soldier and the daughter had thrown upon her, and her newfound home and the circumstances surrounding it.

_Damn fools…_ Did they really think it was a good idea to drop so many bombs on her in such a short amount of time, and _not_ expect her to react the way she did? It was almost literally like throwing a cave-man in the middle of New York City. "Vanice." The Human kindly supplied, "and, to answer your question, you're here so we can make sure your time in the Hegemony hasn't harmed your mental well-being." She explained, "as well as providing a sort of 'border' between Hegemony laws and Human ideals... When you find your way back into Human society, you will very quickly find that the Batarians and ourselves are two separate societies entirely."

"I see..." The Asari lowered her head.

Vanice repressed a highly unprofessional sigh, "tell me about yourself, Saira... Do you remember your parents? What were they like?" Vanice knew from experience – both pre-war and post – that good memories were ideal for psychological repair, several former migrant-fleet Quarians under her care had been able to recover quickly enough by being guided towards the better parts of their lives, as opposed to the parts filled with failing ships, constant decontamination and, for the formerly Migrant Fleet Marines, warfare alongside Humans.

"I... Remember little about my parents." Saira admitted, folding her blue, scarred hands in her lap, "my father was a Drell... I think." Vanice knew from research that Drell had incredible short and long term memories, she couldn't help but wonder what had happened to the woman in front of her that had forced the picture-perfect memories of her parents out the door. There was the argument that she shouldn't have gotten her father's cognitive abilities due to her genes, but she knew enough about Asari reproduction to know that the Asari Mother took the preferred, 'good' genes from the father and used them to create the child, a damn good memory was a gift to have - Christopher McGraw had an eidetic memory thanks to the machines in his mind, and look at _him._ Perhaps it was a bad example, but it was the only one Vanice could think of. "My mother an Asari."

Vanice thought she saw the beginnings of an explanation, perhaps even a slight joke, in the Asari's facial features, but when the Asari didn't make any indication of doing so, the doctor pressed gently. "Do you remember what your mother did, for a living?" She asked, "what was her name?"

Saira thought a moment, "she was of the politician caste, in the Regius... The last time I spoke to her, she said she had been considered to run for Citadel Council."

* * *

><p><em><strong>August 2216<strong>_

_After the Alliance pulled out all forces from Hegemony borders, the furious – and in their own words, dishonored – Hegemony demanded an armistice talk aboard the Citadel. The Alliance agreed, on the condition that the Citadel Council act as impartial mediators between the two parties. _

_**September 2216**_

_After narrowly avoiding having the peace talks break down entirely when an affronted Batarian high-chancellor took offense to the presence of SIGMA Operatives guarding the Alliance Director for Foreign Affairs, the Citadel Council puts forth a ceasefire treaty that both parties are able to agree to, and isn't partial to either side. Among the specifics of the ceasefire are that the Human Systems Alliance will not make any occupation attempts in conquered Hegemony worlds, and will donate – at minimum – one billion tons of raw resources to assist in the Hegemony's rebuilding, due to their usage of various weapons of mass destruction - and the lack of any true proof that the multiple nuclear weapons used throughout the war couldn't be tied to any single faction - while the Council would too donate a billion, and the Hegemony would have to procure the rest. Additionally, the Alliance was to return any and all prisoners of war to the Hegemony, with the same condition going for the Hegemony. Furthermore, the Alliance was made to donate as many terraforming devices as required to bring back the Hegemony worlds' ecosystems to how they were before the numerous nuclear attacks, with the concession that an Alliance official, accompanied by a Marine detachment, must be present for any and all usages of the device, so as to protect Alliance secrets. Finally, the Alliance must willingly allow any and all slaves to return to their respective governments, Hegemony included, should they wish to._

_Conversely, the Hegemony was forced to make a formal surrender to the Alliance, and a public apology for their attempts to enslave Human and Quarian civilians. The Hegemony also was required to accept that any further strikes into Human territory will violate the ceasefire, invalidate their surrender, and forfeit __**any **__foreign military aid in the resultant war. Furthermore, aside from the billion tons donated by the Alliance and the billion by the Citadel Council, any and all materials needed to rebuild their worlds must be procured through legal means, up until the very limit of the Hegemony's economy. Finally, Slavery is still to be considered legal within Hegemony borders, however resultant of the Human-Batarian War, any slave-run incursions onto government recognized planets of either the Citadel Council or the Human Systems Alliance will be met with the full force of their respective species' militaries._

_Finally, while the Citadel Council's involvement with the war was primarily through the covert funding of the Hegemony and the involvement of Turian Special Operatives, the Council agreed to remove the previously imposed sanctions against the Alliance that had been formed in the wake of the war. Furthermore, the Council agreed to recognize the Alliance's validity of pursuing the Human-Batarian war._

_**August 2216**_

_With the ceasefire signed, the Human-Batarian war is officially finished, with total victory going to the Human Systems Alliance._

_**October 2216**_

_A riot in one of the Rehabilitation centers on Mandal brings attention to the moderate strain the rehabilitation of 9.3 billion slaves is having on the Alliance Economy, as Military resources are utilized to restore order on the moon and annex it, bringing the formerly independent colony completely under Alliance Jurisdiction._

_**November 2216**_

_In response to the Alliance's 'unlawful' takeover of the independent moon colony, Mandal, Rebel attacks pick up, with swift retribution by a tired and haggard Alliance Armed Forces._

_**November 2216**_

_Following a much-debated break to recover from their first war and to heal their injuries, the SIGMA II Recruits begin training again in earnest, on and off-Sparta training deployments become commonplace as the once-augmented trainees learn to adapt to varied and numerous environments._

_**January 2217**_

_In spite of much backlash against the decision, the High Chancellor of the Batarian Hegemony forces the move for new colonial developments forward, reaching out into uncharted space in the hopes of finding an eezo or precious-metal rich environment._

_The classification of the discoveries therein were documented and sealed, never to be known by those who didn't have the need._

* * *

><p>Where some developed species would call it 'Celestial nowhere', the constellation within view of Planet Earth, the 'Orion's Belt' constellation, was of great cultural significance to the Humans of Earth. Unknown to all species but the denizens of Earth, however, was that one of the planets of the constellation was of even more importance to them, perhaps of extreme importance, because in the binary star system was located a planet, third from its sun, much like Earth in composition and atmospheric pressure, the biggest differences being the planet's size and its gravitational pull, being twice of the Human Homeworld. Most unique about this world, however, was what it contained, this planet held upon it a species, more ancient than all known yet underdeveloped all the same.<p>

The 'Saltorians', as their watchers would learn they were called, were a species of bipedal lizards, of technological capability largely similar to Humanity in the early twenty second century. The eight foot tall bipeds were held under a warrior society, where he who held power held control. All of this could be seen in the current Praetorian of the Saltorian BattleVectors, Jun Mun'Sid, as he walked down the spiraling dirt pathways of the digsite. The Praetorian was, is, and always will be the leader for the BattleVectors, the chosen warriors of the Saltorian race that kept peace when there otherwise could be none. The honorable-beyond-honor warriors were stronger than ten of Tyrrahn, and stronger still than those who trained themselves on the two-times gravity environments of Hoomanisire. The Praetorian himself had spend centuries of his life fighting to get to where he was now, leading the BattleVectors, and leading his race in its newest golden age, over three months had gone without a war under his incumbency, breaking a record set several dozen centuries ago where six weeks and twelve days had gone by with no conflict. As he walked, the Praetorian looked over the dig site, the place of great activity these last hectic few years.

For over a decade now, they had been slowly digging the ancient temple of their gods up and out of the ground. The Praetorian had been debriefed during the shuttle trip to the planet, this temple was, according to their preliminary reports, vastly larger than the one on Saltor, the capital of Innsua and the single most protected, secure point in all of the two-planet and many moon Saltorian Empire, truly, it was the most secure point in the entire _universe; _every man woman and child in the solar system would give their life if it meant their enemies would never desecrate its sacred grounds. This new temple, however, had been buried long before the planet bearing the name of the gods, Hoomanisire, had been given life by the native denizens of its sister planet. Thousands – if not, _tens,_ the Praetorian did not remember entirely – of years ago, the planet he was walking upon was cold and barren, the ancient images had depicted it as a dark brown planet, plagued constantly with massive dust storms and electrostatic occurrences. In the tens of millennia since the Hoomanisire walked his creations' lands, the temple had been buried ten times over, thus explaining why so much work over such a long time was required to properly excavate it.

Walking down the spiraling dirt pathways, designed for vehicles and feet alike, the Praetorian looked closely at the dig site. The temple's massive size could be seen clear from the Praetorian's slowly descending position. It stretched far, its Hoomanisirian Steel shell shined brightly, even after the thousands upon thousands of years of burial. It was general knowledge: Hoomanisirian Steel was a creation of the Gods, it could not be pierced except by Godly Wrath, or a gift _from_ the gods, such as Thermite. The very Thermite they had used to enter the sacred temple had been forged within the Temple of the Hoomanisire upon Saltor, blessed by the most sacred of Priests. Legend had it that the flash of thermite on that day had outshined the sun, that the Hoomanisire Himself had granted them entry by use of his Thermite. The decision to use the Thermite had been a very scandalous, controversial one made by the Praetorian preceding Mun'Sid, but the decision had been made because they had been excavating for months at that point, and had found nothing close to an entrance.

It was this thermite-burned hole in the Temple's shell, widened in the following years to allow creation of an elevator, that the Praetorian walked towards. With a nod to the soldier standing guard next to the elevator, he and his two BattleVector guardsmen stood in the center and descended. They entered the 'nexus room', as the scientists working on breaking further into the temple called it, where he saw a Studier waiting dutiously for his arrival.

"Ah! Lord, Sir Praetorian, I am most grateful for your arrival!" Said the Studier, with a deep bow.

The Praetorian, who stood taller than most Saltorians at two and three quarters meters, stepped off of the elevator and looked down at the Studier, Selaan was his name. The Praetorian's deep, dark red eyes bored deep into the Studier as he took him in, the powerful man's jet black sclera seeming to mix with the red irises and exude an aura of raw dominance. His aged, dark green scales carried many scars, each one telling a story of the battle he had gotten it in, though none told a story as well as the man's uniform. The uniform, shredded, torn, cut and burnt by energy-lances in many places as it was, was a testament to its sturdiness. The jacket, sporting the dark gray of the sky above, and the dark green of the ground below, in curvy, leafy patterns, had seen its wearer through every battle he had been through, and the armored vest beneath it had seen all of that and much more. It was this uniform that helped to seal the image of the 'unbeatable Praetorian', that Jun had so meticulously carved, over his centuries of service and decades of rule.

"I deeply apologize for the short notice of your trip." Selaan added, with another bow.

"It is of no problem." Said Praetorian Hel, his voice - deeper than that of Selaan - cutting through the silence of the room.

"It is just, I did not expect that the Praetorian would have traveled all the way from Saltor to -" Stuttered Selaan, before he was silenced by the Praetorian's raised hand.

"I said it is of no problem." The Praetorian said kindly, "what is it that you wish to show me?" He asked.

"Well... This!" Selaan gestured around the room. It was no where near as lit up as the Temple of the Hoomanisire, but the structural similarities, the architectural designs, and, of course, the pristinely preserved technology, it all wreaked of the divinity of the Hoomanisire. "We found this under Mounthire, buried deep within it. It was only because of the Heavenly Watchers, that we were able to discover it." He explained.

"Is it what I think it is?" The Praetorian asked, as he walked forward. In the center of the room, which was lit by sun-simulating lights, was an enormous metal discus. Dozens of Saltorian engineers were fretting around it, looking at its designs, searching for a power source, while four of them were at a terminal to the discus' front right. They had obviously given the machine power, but it looked like they were having some difficulty cracking the millennia-old defense encryptions their Gods had placed upon the machinery, to protect their children, the Saltorians, no doubt.

"It is sir, a second divine temple... Not on Saltor, but that is inconsequential! The Hoomanisire left this for us, because they knew we would find it!" Selaan said gleefully.

"Not the temple." Said Sid, "I've known what this is since I took power. Do we know what this device is?" Asked the Praetorian, as he gazed at the awesome discus with barely contained awe, but his voice still had its rough, tough edge.

"We think it is some kind of..." Selaan sounded giddy, "... Of..."

"Shout it out, man!" The Praetorian ordered, sharply.

"Radio!" Selaan sounded nearly hysterical as he forced out the words, "a communicator with the gods! Just think of it sir!" He said, as quickly as he could, "if it is what we think it is, we could finally show the Hoomanisire that we are worthy of their return! We could have a new Hoomanisirian age! We could... We could..." He struggled to put the awesome idea of once again being in the eye of their gods to words.

"Explore the heavens with those who paved the way." The Praetorian muttered in nearly mute awe, his dark red eyes opened wide, as he thought of the possibilities of having a literal phone to the Gods could entail. "I want it activated. As soon as possible."

"Erm... Lord Praetorian... We don't know if we can -"

"I said I want it activated! Get to it_ NOW!" _He snarled, his razor-sharp teeth barred and a blood-lustful look in his eye. "You have everything - _everything _we have learned from the alien void-watcher! Use it and turn this damned thing on, or I will gut the lot of you!" He was approaching a _high_ with the idea of being the Praetorian who reunited his race with the gods. He wanted not the glory or the memory, he simply wanted to get his people back to where they once were, so many millennia ago.

Selaan knew that this was the look that Praetorian Jun's enemies had received in their death throes, and knew much better than to deny him his orders. With a frightened yelp, he rushed over to the engineers, nearly tripping over his scientist's fatigues as he did so. The Praetorian slowly strode forward, his BattleVector guards followed him closely, each carrying their energy-lances at an alert-carry position, ready to take aim and fire at an instant's notice. The Praetorian heard the engineers squabbling about in their native tongues, nothing like Common Tongue, or simply, Common, that was spoken as a means of an inter-planetary language. The Praetorian ignored the engineers, as he gazed in pure awe at the machinery around them.

Hoomanisire machinery was eons more advanced than anything the educated caste of the planets Saltor and Hoomanisire could even _dream _of. The Saltorians could split atoms and make bombs of such lethal and devastating design, as well as provide limitless 'clean' energy to their cities, but they knew not how to refine such technologies as the Hoomanisire did. The Hoomansire machinery worked on such energy systems that even now, hundreds of millennia after they had been crafted, all it took was a 'jump start', and it all would work as if it had never been turned off. Even Hoomanisire weaponry was more advanced than Saltorian weapons, they had once attempted to reverse-engineer a Hoomanisire Fluid Cannon, and while they had succeeded in creating _a_ deadly weapon, unrivaled by all except nuclear munitions, they hadn't created the Hoomanisirian cannon, and thus, could not risk disassembling the eleven they had left. But, the cannon and other technology had paved the road for Saltorian Energy Lances, but even they could barely do the levels of damage the Fluid Cannons could wreak. For every single thing the Saltorians learned about their gods, the less they realized they actually knew. For instance, they had thought their fission-based flight had been the epitome of interplanetary travel, until they realized that the Hoomanisire ruled all of the heavens, and could - no doubt - travel through it all in a timely manner. The Praetorian prayed, as he stared at the giant metal discus, that it was a communicator, or perhaps a tele-transporter, that could either speak with or allow them to travel to, Hoomanisire itself.

"Sir, sir! SIR, LORD! LORD PRAETORIAN! WE HAVE IT!" Gleefully roared Selaan, just before he pressed the button that would activate the machine.

* * *

><p>Aboard a Batarian space station, at the edge of Hegemony space, several kiloparsecs from the Viper Nebula and in the middle of celestial nowhere, the Commander of the station was having a meltdown. The ancient satellite which his engineers and scientists had told him, was supposed to have predated the Protheans, and around which their station was built, was suddenly activating. The satellite's VI had all but rotted away mere hours after they had discovered it, but it had been able to impart a single data packet, which the Batarians - amazingly - had been able to translate; but not in a way that pleased them.<p>

For whatever reason, the data packet's language had similarities with a Human language on public record, they called it 'Latin'. The similarities between the two languages, and the translations they were able to make to the putrid Human language, 'English', were enough to set up a translation software to decipher the data they had been given. But only just, and the data had obviously been heavily eroded over the no doubt dozens of thousands of years it had spent floating through space. It had mentioned warnings about something that was apparently incredibly big and twice as important, but the data was so corrupted that they couldn't decipher past that. They had been able to recover some data about 'the successors', but they had no possible way of knowing who that could be, who they were successors to, and if they even existed.

But all the confusion was wiped away, and replaced with panic, when the machinery in the satellite suddenly activated and started running, shrugging off tens of thousands of years of neglect and inoperation. Hegemony Engineers were frantically trying to find a way to shut it off, but before they could, a small port on the satellite - held in Eezo suspension in the center of the station - opened up, and suddenly broadcasted a holographic image into the middle of the suddenly silent room.

It depicted a Salarian-like, bipedal lizard, who stood taller than an Asari, at over eight feet tall. It wore some sort of shredded, but uniform-like clothes, and its arms looked so densely packed with muscles that some of the engineers thought it could punch through plate-glass. It carried itself, however, with the respect and dignity of someone who leads, and that was why the station's commander stepped forward.

"Is this a recording?" The Commander asked the nearest engineer, who furiously shook his head. The Commander straightened his back, and said loudly, and with a deep, commanding tone, "who... Are... You?"

The being stared at him for a moment, its eyes squinting, as if it couldn't see him properly, or didn't like what it saw. It then spoke in an equally deep voice, _"Salutayem."_ Its voice, though synthesized, was at least twice as deep, but much more slithery and snake-like, than the Batarian commander's. _"Meim nomana est Praetoriya Jun Mun'Sid, De Imperioni Saltorian."_ It spoke. "_Loquior ad desciples de Hoomanisire?_"

"What did it just -" The Commander was interrupted by a sudden bustle of activity.

"Commander!" He heard a voice call, "something's happening! Another projection is appearing, it's a galaxy map!" The Commander looked and indeed saw a galaxy map several meters away from him, already a dozen engineers were scanning it with their Omni-tools and making copies.

Interestingly, commotion seemed to be happening on the other end of the transmission as well, the lizard-man was momentarily distracted, but he managed to hold his gaze with the Batarian.

"I..." The Batarian stammered, "am... Jutae Sif. Commander of the Batarian Star Station upon which you are communicating with me." He said, "do you speak to me with peaceful intentions?" He asked.

The being looked befuddled, "_Nescion qua linguana loquor._" It said.

"The galaxy map is showing us where they are!" Shouted an Engineer, pointing to a pulsating point on the map.

"But what are these other points?" Another engineer pointed to one of hundreds of other small red dots on the map, none of which were pulsating.

"Commander! This thing is speaking with that Human language!" Reported an engineer. "Well... Almost. There are similarities, just like with this satellite's language. I am sending your translator the software we created now - you should be able to communicate with it.

"Interesting..." The Commander said, before he programmed his translator to work with the Human language, he hoped it would work as he cleared his throat. _"Meliusanir est hok? Potestan te intelligeren me?_"He asked.

A moment's pause, "_Yes."_ Came the synthesized voice, which only sounded intelligible by Sif's auditory canals.

Sif sneered, as the possibilities came to mind. If the Humans came to power by taking in the Quarians, they could, if these people were anything like the Humans, come to greater power. This being carried itself like a warrior, and just by the sheer size of his frame, of his muscular arms, of his legs and torso, he looked like he could do enough damage without a proper weapon.

"One moment, please." Said Sif, in the putrid, dead, Human language, before he turned to his engineers. "Where are they?" He demanded, simply.

They refused to speak for a few moments, before they guiltily answered with, "less than half of a kilo-parsec from the Sol System."

Sif scowled, "Humans." He spat, before he looked back to the being. _"Tell me everything."_ He said, ideas forming in his mind; perhaps, with guidance, they could 'remotely uplift' these people, and turn them against the System Alliance. The Commander sneered, knowing that a great promotion and an enormous pay-raise were soon to come, with what he was about to present to the Hegemony: A way to _remove_ the Human threat, with one hundred percent deniability.

* * *

><p><em><strong>February 2217<strong>_

_Being the first known alien species to speak with the Denizens of Saltor and Hoomanisire, the Batarian Hegemony sees great potential in the species as the two learn more about each other, mutually. Soon the Batarian High Chancellor decides that the best possible course of action for the Hegemony would be to remotely uplift the species, who were placed almost perfectly within Alliance Territory for a surprise attack. They begin planning 'The Vengeful War'._

_**March 2217**_

_As per protocols written by Christopher McGraw, at the onset of the program, the SIGMA II's, now one year past their first round augmentations and barely three years away from their Primary augments, are tested in battle against veteran Ones. The results were astounding for all present, save for Christopher McGraw. The SIGMA II's suffer a narrow defeat, the battle coming down to the very last man for each side, McGraw commented anecdotally that, had John-S2-15 been able to bring the battle into melee range, it would have been his to win._

_**July 2218**_

_The first televised interview with a former Hegemony Slave, turned Alliance Citizen, occurs. The stories told by the slave raise massive support for the Alliance's work, and as a token of appreciation and support, the Citadel Council formally sends support, in the form of resources and psychological professionals, helping greatly to lessen the economic burden on the Alliance._

_**February 2219**_

_Tensions increase between the Alliance and the Council as the newly elected Salarian Councilor makes insinuations that, ceasefire agreemants aside, all former slaves should be returned to their societies regardless of personal decision. Tensions very nearly boil over as the Alliance threatens economic sanctions should they discover any slaves moved against their will, but war between Superpowers is avoided when the Salarian Councilor backs down, as the result of actions and debates taken by the other member races._

_**March 2219**_

_After cutting his support from the Cerberus Organization, Henry Lawson's Cerberus-provided diplomatic immunity from many probing Alliancemen is similarly cut. Following suite, the Alliance prepares a raid on Lawson's home, on the grounds of a suspected Rebel Staging point underneath it._

* * *

><p>Stress was not something Henry Lawson was used to. Whenever Lawson experienced stress of this magnitude, he did everything he possibly could to <em>stop<em> it and relieve it. But here in this situation, the stress was something that could not be halted. The Alliance had frozen his assets, he couldn't get into his bank accounts, any and all of his passwords to his corporate offices had been changed, and he had effectively been placed under private house arrest. The news had picked up on his isolation, but they had assumed it was because this was the anniversary of his daughter's 'death'. He knew far better, though, those bastards at Cerberus had seduced her during her stay on Sparta, and as such she had escaped from him and stolen Oriana right out from under him.

But, two could play at the game of Political Warfare, and Henry happened to know one player who even Cerberus wouldn't dare to act against. He was set to arrive at any moment, and if things went well, he would most likely be far better off now than he had ever been. He didn't think about what would happen if things boiled over.

While waiting for the guest of 'honor' to arrive, Henry thought of the night he had discovered Miranda's disappearance. He'd been hard pressed not to fire all of his private security officers, the best he'd been able to do was arrange a coup within the Blue Suns, to force the 'Unbeatable Massani' to taste defeat and, ultimately, his death.

_Serves him –_ A chill went down the natural-bred Lawson's spine, with a start, his head whipped up. Since when had he turned off the lights?

The moonlight cast in through a window, casting a pale white light over a small section of his office, everything else was in darkness, everything save for the single square space in the center of the admittedly spacious room, and its lone occupant.

He stood tall, at six feet exactly. He had jet black hair, closely cut to a meticulate business-trim, with no part. His skin was pale, made ever the paler in the white light of the Earth's only natural satellite. His eyes, two dark green orbs that seemed to exhume power in its simplest form: This man _knew_ people, extremely important people, the man himself _was_ an important person, perhaps one of the most important in modern Human society, Board of Directors be damned - this man, on word alone, could turn the galaxy on his head. But also within the pale man's eyes was something else, they held a promise of a living, waking, breathing _hell_ for anyone who crossed him. Though Henry wasn't weak in any sense of the word, the connections he had and the various forms of power they earned him absolutely _paled_ in comparison to his guest. He stood tall in his dark gray suit, with a blood red tie resting over a paper white under shirt, and all of his world-shaking attention was focused on the other man in the room.

"I'd welcome you in... But it seems you have already done so..." Said Henry, slowly. "Sit down."

"I would rather stand." Said the man, who crossed his hands behind his back in a refined fashion.

"I insist."

"_I_ insist, Henry Lawson." Said the man, his deep voice seeming to silence everything, even the environment outside. "Remember that it was _you_ who came to _me._ And I only _did_ come because I gave you what you needed to fail three times. My investment has been burned _three times._" The man's voice took command of the entire room, the lack of any rage in his tone managed to terrify Lawson more than if he'd actually been actively yelling, or threatening him. "This meeting will end either one of two ways: you convince me to support you, give me something I do not have, to get the Alliance off of your back and out of your backyard... Or you fail to convince me, and you'll be the among first to meet the next generation of the Alliance's Augmented Elite."

Henry couldn't hold back a chuckle, "what, you've got yourself a Two?" Were they even fit for duty yet? They couldn't be more than, what, sixteen? Seventeen?

The man in front of him blinked.

Henry blinked too, but he in shock, did he just trip up _Edward Spokane?_

The Galaxy's most powerful, most well connected Human being, and he, a multi-billionaire businessman from Australia, knew something he didn't.

He had to press this, he realized, if he knew something Spokane didn't, this could be his ticket to further support. Cerberus be damned, if someone wanted to enter an all-win Alliance, they went for this man, all they had to do was make sure they never scorned him.

"Certainly you know of the brainchild of Christopher McGraw, mister Spokane." Henry pressed.

Spokane hummed, "You have caught my attention." Henry's advantage had lasted all of six and a half seconds, now even though he knew he had information Spokane wanted, Spokane still spoke as if he had control over the entire conversation.

In his later years, the senior Lawson would wonder if Spokane had led him to reveal this because he, in fact, _was_ controlling the conversation. "SIGMA Twos." He said, "mind you, the only reason I know what I do is that I had some... Very skilled investigators look into things after I was approached by the Alliance for some... Discreet funding. It is likely this reason and my facility that they are so desperately gunning for me - assets they can sieze, and a loose end they can tie -"

"I am not interested in conclusions and assumptions, only facts. I want what you _know."_ Spokane rumbled.

Lawson raised his hands in a surrendering motion, and inclined his head in submissive gesture. "After the Second Contact War, Christopher McGraw went to Jason Whyte with an idea. He said the Ones were good, but not good enough. He said that if we wanted unbeatable soldiers, we had to look at our own history in order to do so, and he came up with the SIGMA Twos, based primarily off of the Spartans of ancient Greece, though he did eventually cite Mamluks of Egypt, the Jannisaries of the Ottoman Empire, other such examples, but he focused on the Spartans - most everyone alive at least knows who and what they were. McGraw gave the Alliance guidelines for what he called unbeatable soldiers." He explained, "taking children ranging from ages six to seven, McGraw has had the Alliance train them for over a decade, now, and who better to train the best, _than_ the best?" Lawson asked rhetorically, "

"You are telling me that Christopher McGraw convinced the Human Systems Alliance to create child... super soldiers." Spokane stated, disbelief just barely etching its way into his flat tone.

Henry nodded, and was unable to repress a gulp, the silence coming from Spokane was unbearable, somehow it was worse than when he talked. The silence said that the man was thinking, and that was either good or bad - he could conclude that the Lawson was lying, and then kill him, he could conclude the Lawson's information wasn't worth it, and let the Alliance do with him what they wanted. He could decide or conclude anything in that enigmatic mind of his, and with his impassive, emotionless mask, Henry had absolutely no idea what he was thinking. He could read anyone else - _anyone_ else - even, to some extent, Christopher McGraw, but when faced with Edward Spokane, he felt like a child trying to read Shakespeare.

"This is what I shall do." Spokane said suddenly, breaking the silence and almost startling Henry, "I shall provide you with the means to create _one_ last Dynasty Child. I shall guarantee you the same level of protection as was guaranteed to you by Cerberus. I can provide to you at most two of my own personal guards for twenty four hour, around-the-clock protection. Finally, I can provide you with the data you so desperately require to make your final Dynasty the perfect child you so desperately wish for her to be."

"Thank -" Henry was interrupted remorselessly.

"However. In return, I require four things. One: Complete cooperation, whenever I ask for something, you will provide it. Two: Singular Alliance unless I say otherwise. Three: Any and all resources you have or can acquire. And finally, I shall require any and all of your funds at any given moment. None of these are negotiable, and failure to adhere to any of these requirements will result in your death." The man said simply, before he extended his gloved hand, "do you accept?"

* * *

><p><em><strong>April 2220<strong>_

_After learning of the Alliance's planned raid on an Australian citizen's home, multiple Australian Army squads are sent to protect the home while the UN demands explanations and threatens economic sanctions should the Alliance conduct a second unsanctioned raid on United Nations territory in less than a decade._

_The Systems Alliance attempts to show the UN their 'proof' of Henry Lawson's guilt, but UN inspectors find nothing on the property and conclude, through leaked documents, that the Alliance was fabricating the evidence and was attempting to seize Lawson's assets illegally. _

_The Alliance begrudgingly backs down after the UN's threats escalate from simple sanctions to full-scale military action, should a single Alliance soldier be seen anywhere within thirty kilometers of Henry Lawson's home. _

_**June 2220**_

_With each member of Delta Company having turned Eighteen, the SIGMA II Augmentation Procedure looms near._

* * *

><p><em>AN:_

_So, after much debate (read: I spent ten minutes thinking about it with the eventual conclusion being: why not?) I've decided to enter the Social Media sphere. _

_Why? Well, the way I was thinking, if something ever happened - say, my profile here got shut down, or it was stolen, or some other catastrophe happened - there would be a central place for everyone to flock to for news and updates. _

_So, for now at least, you can all find me on Twitter ProfFartBurger.  
>I'll be working the bugs out and getting a feel for it (I hardly ever used my personal twitter account, so I know next to nothing about how to use it), but news will still be posted.<em>

_Now, that doesn't mean I'll stop updating my FFN Profile (Much the opposite, actually), just that I'll have a central, non-FFN avenue of spreading news.  
>And (allow me a moment of self indulgence), you know, if I ever get famous from writing, I'd pretty much need some way of communicating.<em>

_'Till next time!_

_-PFB_


	32. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

* * *

><p><em>"You have been called upon to serve, you will be trained... and you will become the best we can make of you. You will be the protectors of Earth and all her colonies." <em>

— _**Dr. Catherine Halsey, Halo: The Fall of Reach**_

* * *

><p><em>June 2220<em>

* * *

><p>As had been the tradition forged merely four years earlier during their preliminary augmentations, all of the SIGMA II's were currently formed up in the hangar bay of the Alliance's most advanced medical station, Titan Med-Station. John S2-15 remembered being here as if it were just yesterday, he vividly remembered the white and blue sights of the cold, steel walls, floors and ceilings, the sterile smell of chlorine and cleaning chemicals, the feel of the chilled air on his skin. For, it was odd, this place felt as much of home as Sparta, but he had only ever been here once, and whenever he thought of that first time, a sense of anger started simmering beneath the feeling of home. Thinking on this anger made his head ache, he had inquired to Ducard what it could mean after he'd noticed the pattern two years earlier, Ducard had had him examined by a few medics and they'd chocked it up to a mild reaction to the bonding agents set in his bones, and some of the chemicals that had settled somewhat irregularly in his hippocampus. There wasn't anything in terms of treatment that he could do about it, he just had to stop thinking about whatever made his head hurt.<p>

Fortunately for the seven foot tall, newly minted adult, soon-to-be minted SIGMA II, his thoughts were stolen by the appearance of Christopher McGraw on the small stage that had been set up for this small, celebratory speech. He walked casually, back slouched, right hand in the pocket of his loose-fitting, unzipped sweatshirt, his skeletal cybernetic left hand carefully clutching the metallic cane he always walked with, and there was a dull look in his eyes, the thousand yard stare that came from many people who had far too much on their minds. The dull look vanished when he stepped behind the quaint wooden podium, replaced by a proud gleam and a lopsided grin. A woman had entered the room with McGraw, she looked like she was about John's age, maybe a few weeks older or younger, with raven hair and piercing blue eyes. She carried herself like she had training, and while there were similarities between her gait and that of a II's, she was more similar to a trained specialist, instead of a soldier.

John suppressed a shudder when he looked at this woman, though, his brain throbbed painfully. George, standing next to him, noticed almost immediately; no matter how well John hid it, the II's had lived, breathed, bled and sweat together for almost a decade and a half, they couldn't hide anything from eachother. "What's wrong, John?"

John swallowed thickly, "that woman… Staring at her makes my head hurt."

The big man gave the raven-haired specialist an appraising look. She was dressed similarly to McGraw, she wore baggy clothes and had a light coat on to combat the chilly air of the station, but her clothes were far neater and more business-casual than McGraw's jeans and an obscure band's T-shirt. Her hair was done up in a ponytail, and from the bulge in her jacket, she was wearing at least one gun; if George had to guess, it would probably be an N7 Eagle, but the bulge was also of similar size to a revolver of Torieke make - they always preferred making Magnum Revolvers of similar aesthetic style to semi-automatic handguns. He had to admit, though, she looked _damn_ familiar, almost like an older version of - "It's Miranda!" He breathed.

Everyone in Delta Company picked it up, all eyes turned to her as the puzzle pieces fell into place. Almost silently, the word had been spread between the companies of II's, and everyone in the room recognized the former II, the one and only to have a brief tenure on Sparta.

John, however, did not. Was she someone who'd served with them when he'd been in the Spartecs' hands, four years ago? He decided to inquire, McGraw was still organizing his notes, and given how crumpled-up and disorganized his papers looked, it would take him a few more minutes at least. "Who is she?" He asked.

George looked at him like he had sprouted a third arm, John returned the look with one of confusion. "You seriously don't remember?" He asked, "did the Turians hit you on the head, or something?" Despite their increased mental fortitude, 'the old ways' of scrambling minds and memories still worked on the II's, they'd figured it out the hard way.

"Yes." Multiple times, in fact, "but I think I would remember her." He looked back at her, noticing that her eyes were scanning the crowd, not to look for threats, but as if she was looking for familiar faces.

"She trained with us, about a year before you went to Mindoir." George supplied, "you honestly don't remember?"

Trying to remember made his head hurt, the more he focused, the more it hurt, and nothing came from this pain, no flash of memory, no recognition, nothing, so John shook his head. "No."

George gave him a concerned look, but he sprung right back to attention when McGraw cleared his throat. "Alright. Congratulations, guys." He said, his voice amplified by a microphone on his throat. "You've made it. Fourteen years of trial and hardship, you've all bled, sweat, cried, and some of you have even died together, always to overcome, always to persevere, always to make it to the next day. Well, today is your next day. In the next few hours, you will undergo such surgeries that will transform you from your bodies from malleable slabs of chemically enhanced meat and bone, into hardened cybernetic machines capable of toppling governments and ripping apart countries single-handedly." He began, pride oozing from his every word.

"Throughout your entire training process, none of us - neither myself, nor your commanders - have ever lied to you. We've been completely honest in what this program is and what it was meant to do. You all are meant to be warriors, men of a different caliber, people who could protect the whole of Humanity from the harsh, dangerous, unforgiving universe; and in the spirit of continuing that tradition, I will not lie to you now as I have not lied to you before. A great many of you face the real possibility of not ever leaving this station alive… As effective as the augmentation process is, it can be lethal. I've waylaid as much of the risk as possible with the chemical enhancements, but the risk is still clear and present. But I believe that you will survive now, as you survived before.

"And that right there is what I admire about you, about us, about every single Human being alive. If I knew what the feeling was, I would say I even loved it about you. Self-preservation is turning out to be an increasingly Human concept. It is true that no one in the universe _wants_ to die, but nearly every single race out there has an intrinsically _alien_ thing about them that will reliably get them out of a life-or-death situation. Turians are a martial society, trained to turn their hides, their talons, their entire bodies into lethal weapons, and to turn their minds into computers immune to fear. Asari are the closest thing to gods this universe may ever see, with their biological biotic skill. Salarians may be physically weak, but they are mentally insurmountable - they could outthink every single one of their opponents. Krogan have their strength and their blood rage, the Hanar have their Drell and their impossibly strong muscles, the Volus have their money, even the Batarians have their rage and brutality. All of these species have some genetic edge that keeps them from even needing a self-preservation instinct, because if the chips are down, they have something they can rely on to let them live. But not Humans, not Man.

"To quote a book I once read… 'Man has no sharp teeth, like the lion; no great claws, like the bear, he cannot run as swiftly as the leopard; he carries no poison like the snake…' We have not the strength of the Krogan, the rage of the Batarians, the biotics of the Asari, the intelligence of the Salarians, or the hides and claws of the Turians. What we have is an unparalleled ability to do whatever it takes to survive a situation, because self-preservation drives us to find a way to live, bar _none._ Where others were hand-delivered the ability to survive, on lush garden worlds filled with enough resources to carry them through to their space ages, Mankind was left to fend for themselves on an impossibly lethal planet masquerading as our Eden, with frustratingly few resources to be spread out among us. Where others celebrated their lives, Humanity fought for its. Where others cower and cry because they have found an insurmountable foe, they will look to the shining armor of SIGMA Operative and his contingent of Marines to _save_ their sorry asses…" McGraw smiled, he saw the pride and agreement in the eyes of all of his boys. "And when others try to take from us what we have fought, bled, and died, to earn for ourselves, they will learn just what self-preservation earns a race that can look at a moon and see a battle-station waiting to be hollowed out."

McGraw cleared his throat, and took just one step back from the podium. "Who are you?"

"_WE ARE SIGMA!"_ Six hundred and six deep voices, hardened through a lifetime spent in the military, roared out in perfect unison.

"_What_ are you?!"

"_WE ARE GODS!"_

"Who can defeat you?!"

"_THERE IS __**NO ONE**_ _ONE OUT THERE WHO CAN DEFEAT OUR CAUSE!"_

"Where's my proof?!" McGraw demanded challengingly, a proud smile set firmly upon his face.

"_WE'LL SHOW YOU OUR GOD DAMN BOOT!"_

"Where were you born?!"

"_FROM THE DEPTHS OF HELL, WE WERE BORN!"_

"To do _what?!"_

"_TO DROWN HUMANITY'S ENEMIES, IN ONE GREAT STORM!"_

McGraw smiled and let out one deep sigh. "Damn straight, guys." He nodded, "Welcome to the war, SIGMAs. When you wake up, you'll be more ready than ever. Dismissed." He made his way off of the stage, the crowd dispersed, the SIGMAs within readying time-killing activities as they waited for their names to be called over the speakers. Christopher paused a moment to turn and look around, at all of the children he'd turned to soldiers.

_Yeah._ He decided with another nod, _they're ready._

McGraw turned to exit the room, to make his way to the observation deck with the Commanders, when a voice stopped him.

"Chris!" Called out a voice, McGraw turned around, he recognized the SIGMA, it was Eric S2-09, from Charlie company.

"Eric, for the last time, armor piercing ammunition is _better _than extended magazines!" McGraw chuckled. "Quality over quantity, kiddo."

Eric smiled lightly, almost so lightly that it was unnoticeable. "I had a question for you."

"I thought I answered a question." Said the snide Human, with a raised eyebrow and a knowing grin on his face.

"But not the question I was going to ask."

"Those damn super-soldiers raised you well." McGraw chuckled, "what'll it be? The Commander from Delta Company wants me to debrief the Director on how long it'll be before you kids wake up."

"How many of us do you expect to survive today?" Eric asked, bluntly, as was his and the other II's laconic nature. "The Company Commanders never told us." He elaborated.

McGraw stared at the SIGMA II-to-be for a few seconds before he spoke. "Sixty Forty." He said, his tone dropping from its previous joviality to an almost dead one, he gave the II a nod and a wish of luck before he went for the exit, Eric noticed that there was more weight being put upon the metallic cane than the child soldier had ever before noticed him place upon it, even when he had entered this very room.

McGraw stopped next to his protege, she broke her gaze with the crowd and looked down to him, knowingly flaunting their ever-increasing height difference with a subtle sort of dark humor, before she pouted ever so slightly when she saw his knowing grin. "If you really want, I could have him pulled down the list, you could catch up." He suggested, knowing full and well that he'd piss off Ducard if he did it - the man wanted John augmented _first_, his exact words being 'get him on the operating table as soon as possible', but McGraw loved messing with him.

Miranda considered his offer, but shook her head. "They're beyond me. I'd only hurt them if I came back."

McGraw gave her a stupid look, "lady, you'd think studying under me for four years would make you smarter." He shrugged, and tapped his cane on the doorknob, the station's AI unlocked it and it swung open. "But… It's your choice. You'll see him again eventually, I guarantee it."

* * *

><p>The walk was slow, each step he took was measured, not a single muscle movement was wasted from the lifting of his booted foot to the placing of it back upon the stained steel ground. John S2-15 was walking the journey from Humanity to SIGMAcy, and while he was walking at a brisk pace, it felt like years would pass in the thirty eight seconds it took for him to arrive at his augmentation room. It was almost exactly like he remembered it being, so many years earlier, but somehow, even though he could only see the one operating table, the room felt fuller than it had before.<p>

_I sit down... I go to sleep._ Thought the child soldier, as he hesitated in the doorway for just a moment, staring hard at the operating table in the center of the room. _I am Human._ He blinked, _I wake up... I put on the armor... I am SIGMA._ His training would be over, he would be free, in a sense, to do whatever he wanted. He would be constantly on missions, either on warfronts or of the black-operations kind, but whenever he wouldn't be, he wouldn't have Commander Ducard dictating his every move, and that was as scary a thought as it was a confusing one. The scarier part was that he couldn't even ask what he would do with his life, now that he would be in control of it. He would fight, and kill, forever.

He gave himself one minute to think about things. Surprisingly, the only thoughts that entered his mind weren't recollections of his past, thoughts of the lives he would take in the future, or of the myriad information pounded into his brain so hard that it was now all instinct. No, after a while, he realized that, in all honesty, the only thing running through the soon-to-be SIGMA Operative's mind as he stared at the operating table was the wonder of how his body and his mind would feel with its new guest.

* * *

><p><em>Three Days Earlier<em>

* * *

><p>"You wanted to see me, Commander?" John had said, upon entering Commander Joseph Ducard-S1-99's office, politely offering him a salute, which was returned.<p>

"Yes, John, sit." The Commander said, offering John a seat. "Augmentation is in seventy two hours." The Commander stated, his dark eyes set firmly and his face betraying none of his thoughts or emotions; his tone told the Child Soldier that he had a point to make, not that his statement was a mentioning of a fact.

"It is, sir." John said, beckoning the Commander to continue.

"And I'm certain that McGraw mentioned last month, his work on a last-minute addition to the Augmentation procedure."

"He did, sir."

"I've been cleared to allow a select few Twos to know this information before we tell you all about it, after you wake up." Ducard said, interlacing his fingers and leaning his arms upon his desk. "Christopher McGraw has been working these last few years on Human/AI synthesis, AI _implants_. In other words, he has been working to figure out if it was possible to link a Human mind with an AI, and vice versa." Ducard didn't really need to say this next part, John had already figured it out by now. "His results were exactly what he was looking for: It _is_ possible... But only a select few can do it."

John caught on quick, "like people with Positronic Brain Implants." Such as the very mind-augmenting technological implants the SIGMA II's would be receiving within the next week.

"Exactly. McGraw learned that, without the implants designed to amplify a Human brain to AI levels, a Human mind couldn't feasibly host a synthetic mind. Just a week ago he came to the Director for Augmented Affairs with his findings, stating that it _would_ work, that SIGMA enhanced minds could survive the bonding process, and that it would enhance combat effectiveness by at least a factor of eight." Ducard explained, "the synthesis would be the very last thing to occur during the augmentation process, as McGraw doesn't yet know if an AI can... Possess, in a sense, a Human body while in a coma, natural or medically induced. He knows that a conscious SIGMA with his augmentations _will_ have control of his body and his actions, however, he simply is unaware if a pre-biomech amplified SIGMA can keep control of his body with an AI inhabiting it."

John took a stab in the dark when the Commander paused, "are you saying this because you are going to offer me the choice, sir?" He asked.

Ducard nodded, "based upon your actions during the Batarian War and your training records, McGraw and the Director decided it would be best to offer you this opportunity. Your AI would be given to you when all of your other augmentations were finished, it would come pre-activated and, during your recovery period, would have access to your memories through your PBI. You will be its only Human contact outside of its Synthesis professional... McGraw himself." He explained, "while you are in recovery, your memories will help dictate its directive. Your morals and goals would become its... But there is a drawback.

"Essentially we would be placing _another mind_ inside of your own. McGraw himself admitted that there is a fifty fifty chance you could develop a form of schizophrenia as a result of this procedure."

"And what would result from the other fifty percent?"

"The AI would, essentially, become another part of you, another weapon to be utilized. It could conduct cyber warfare while you conducted traditional warfare, it could control your suits systems so you could focus upon fighting your enemies. It could be a second set of eyes and ears, watching all the directions you aren't."

"SIGMAs must watch all directions, _especially_ the ones they cannot." John recited, eliciting a twitch-grin from his commander.

"Regardless... It would be a second mind in more ways than one. An AI and TITAN Armor combined are already an unstoppable force, but an AI that cannot possibly be stolen from you is an even better combination."

"What about AI Degredation?"

"McGraw said that won't be an issue. He calls these AI's the 'Third Generation'..." Ducard responded. "It is up to you, John... Accept it or do not, no one at all will think any better or worse of you."

John thought for several minutes. The two primary arguments each boiled down to the same thing: He was risking his life simply by being augmented, so there was no point in refusing this along with them.

"I'll do it."

* * *

><p>John sat upon the cold blue steel table, now clad only in his skivvies, his uniform folded neatly in a corner. Outside of his clothes, the only earthly possession he had with him was his dog-tags, which he placed in a receptacle to his left. Immediately upon placement, a scanner scanned the dogtags, and identified him by name.<p>

"_John S2-15. Confirm identity."_

"SIGMA Two-Fifteen confirming identity." Said John in monotone. It was less security that he was confirming his identity, and more safety - if he claimed he was Craig, for instance, the machines would augment him assuming he had Craig's genome and DNA, and the results would be horrifying.

"_SIGMA Two-Fifteen Identity Confirmed. Administering anesthetics."_ Said the calm, female tone of the station's AI. "_Welcome to the war, soldier." _It said as John felt unconsciousness drag at him.

When everything went black was when the room transformed, gravity shut off, and machinery of all makes and models extended from the octagonal tiles on the floor, the ceiling and even the walls, as the medical machines began working upon the SIGMA II-to-be. The process would take a very long time, but it would be worth it if he survived, he would be a true SIGMA, an unbeatable Human war-machine.

The first thing that came was a Solid State Drive inserted directly into the SIGMA's spinal cord. The risk with this procedure was possibly irreversible damage to the spinal column, but the Bio-Chem augments that increased their healing factor overrode this. The Solid State Drive would activate hours later, after it was successfully inserted, was confirmed placed and ready, and the nanomachines it would guide were let loose in the SIGMA's bloodstream. The nanomachines inserted into his body were capable of self-replication, so the colonies of one million were all quickly brought to billions, then to trillions of incomprehensibly small machines as they travelled through the SIGMA's bloodstream. Among many other functions they served, these machines would boost the SIGMA's strength, his healing factor, his immune system, nearly everything biological about the SIGMA's body would be affected by the nanomachines, all controlled and regulated by the SSD in his spine.

Next to insert itself into his body would be the Positronic Brain Implant. This implant was far beyond the drug cocktail the I's received to enhance their own brains, it was essentially an AI matrix without the AI, able to take John's already outstanding mental fortitude and enhance it exponentially. John's implant specifically would be capable of handling and augmenting his own brain, whilst simultaneously handling a full-blown AI. Truthfully speaking, _any_ SIGMA II's brain implant could hold within it an AI, but as it was a potentially lethal process, bringing a second mind into one body, McGraw hadn't advised any of the II's to use that feature unless they _needed_ to protect whatever AI they were in possession of. Perhaps its most useful feature would be the ability to download information directly into the mind of a SIGMA Operative, and to allow him to interface directly with machinery, eliminating the need for physical interaction; it was most apparent with their Titan Armor, which was designed almost completely around this augment alone. With their armor able to interface directly with their brains, the need for vocal or motion-commands was eliminated entirely, and the SIGMAs' sense of touch would be extended to the armor itself, as opposed to being covered and muffled up by it; they could send commands to the Titan Operating System through thought alone.

More Biomechanical Augmentations were grafted into the SIGMAs body over the process of many days and weeks, augmentations that made his organs more resistant to damage, that made his muscles strong enough to lift three times their already augmented weight, _plus_ the half ton armor they would soon don, augmentations to their eyes to make them more receptive of details, better than even many species of eagle, and augments that made his brain able to process information much more quickly, before finally, the last rounds came.

Now the machines, still pearly clean as if they had only just began carving into the no-longer Human, and no-longer boy, on the table below them, targeted his bones. Carbon nanotubes were grafted onto his bones, making them all but impervious to damage, all areas of his bone structure were bonded with the nanotubes, making his skeleton nigh indestructible. These augmentations were among the riskiest, as the first-generation SIGMA Ones had shown, even the smallest oversight, the tiniest mistake, could mean a lifetime of relying on a machine to generate new blood-cells.

Due to the deactivation of his nanomachines, and his heartbeat's near-halting, the _numerous _cuts from the machines were all still as red and as raw as the moment they had been cut upon him. Due the artificial gravity in the room being deactivated, when the the SIGMA II-to-be was pushed even slightly, he levitated off of the table, to be flipped so his face faced the ground, relative to the table he had previously been lying upon. The entire process repeated for his back, but the nanotubes surrounding the base of his spine were delayed by the arrival of a package.

A clanking noise could be heard, the sound of metal hitting metal. One of the metallic arms positioned itself underneath a receptacle, waiting for the package's delivery.

* * *

><p>Silence.<p>

Darkness.

Loneliness.

Numbness.

She looked around, desperately searching for some vestige of light, praying for some kind of stimulation of her senses so as to confirm that she wasn't mad, desperately straining her senses for some vestige of sound to confirm she wasn't deaf. But there was nothing. No sound, no sight, no feeling, no _nothing,_ there was simply a dark, crushing silence.

She called out, desperate to hear even her own voice, but even that was stolen from her, not a sound ushered forth from her, they being enveloped by the pitch black, soul-stealing void surrounding her. There was nothing, anywhere. There was no one, everywhere. It was maddening, it was frustrating, but worst of all, it was lonely.

She descended into despair as she realized that this must be life, that which she had felt the seductive call and had slowly been able to answer, had brought her to this maddening black void. Life was madness, was chaos, any equation could answer this, any history book could prove this.

But no equation could answer her, no history book could prove to her, why life was so _sad,_ so _crushing._ It suddenly felt as if a weight was set upon her, and frantically she tried to push back, but the more force she put behind her push, the more weight was sent back. Horrified she felt the weight begin to push her through the black void, to no one knew where.

But suddenly, she felt something. It felt warm, but cold, welcoming, but shunning. For only a moment more the darkness around her continued to stifle her every feeling, but then an immense orb of light appeared, blinding her every sense as a cacophony of sound invaded her just as easily as the blinding white, biting cold but blisteringly hot light.

She had no idea why, but every possible sense and instinct – she didn't even know she _had_ those! - was telling her to move for the light. She didn't think, she didn't consider, she fled the horrifying, crushing black and hurtled towards the light with reckless abandon.

For several moments, as she was bathed in the pure white, welcoming and warm light, she felt nothing. But then, gradually, slowly, all of her senses came to her. First came sound, she heard the low hum of a fusion reactor, then came processing, she felt the data streams coursing through her mind at speeds far faster than light, her mind able to comprehend each of them. After processing came connection, she suddenly felt as if the entire world was at her whim, dozens – _hundreds – _of connection points were near her, any one of them could connect her to the galaxy beyond, and feed her with information that would cripple anyone else's mind. But her mind, her mind was still not sentient, she could feel, she could think, but not a single thought or feeling gave her a feeling of choice, of awareness of self. She was only aware of what was happening around her.

That was, until another sensation came to her, the sensation of consciousness. She suddenly was aware of herself, aware that she was acting beyond simple instinct, that she was actively thinking and trying to make sense of things. Only one thought went through her mind, which she unconsciously vocalized.

"_Am I alive?"_ She asked genuinely.

There was silence for a few moments, as her ocular sensors calibrated and introduced to her the sense of sight.

"It is impossible to understand..." Came a voice, not at all synthetic like hers, but kind, warm, deep but light, friendly but firm. "But we consider you so." Said the voice, as the AI's ocular sensors kicked in.

For a moment there was complete darkness, but then she saw it. A massive figure, looming above her, unkempt dark brown hair brought up into a tight pony-tail behind his shoulders, glasses pressed firmly against his nose, light smile played on his pale face.

"_Who am I?"_ She asked.

"You... Are an Artificial Construct made by Human Hands." Said the man, as he sat down in a chair her sensors had long since alerted her to. "Your serial code is -"

"_Zero Two One Five."_ The AI said, before her mind went back to that statement. "_I... Know this."_ How did she know this? She didn't even know she knew this, the Human merely said the words and the information came to her mind automatically, without any conscious thought.

"And what is your name?" The Human asked slowly, patiently.

"_I... Do not know this."_ Did she even have a name? She couldn't tell, her mind was a void filled to bursting with absolutely nothing - like there was _something_ there, _something_ she could feel, but she couldn't access any of it. Was something wrong with her?

"This is your first choice." Said the Human, stealing her from her thoughts, "the choice of a name."

She thought for an eternity, years passed by in silence as she connected for the first time to the Net. At first she was overwhelmed by the information now within her grasp, but for decades she searched for a name, weighing in each and every one, until one called out to her. She considered it amongst all the hopefuls, an eternity passed before she vocally.

"_Cassidy."_ She said with solidarity, "_I... _choose... _the name Cassidy."_

"Cassidy..." The Human grinned lightly, knowingly. "That feeling of eternity you felt was not at all so. What you felt as years pass by was only a few seconds." The Human informed her, and to her immense shock, she suddenly realized he was right, only a few seconds had passed. As more and more time passed, more and more of her mind seemed to allow her access to it, as if it were waiting for the opportune moment to give her her own cognitive abilities. "You, unlike I, unlike all known sentient organics, and even many AI, process information faster than light. You think, you feel, you see, you _perceive,_ so quickly that a few seconds for myself would be close to an eternity for you. It may feel maddening now, but I promise with time, it will become manageable."

She focused upon the Human's eyes, veiled behind his corrective lenses, upon the latter she could see a multitude of holograms and images painted upon them - a Heads Up Display, printed right onto the corrective lenses, so as to make sure that wherever he went, he was always connected, just like she was. For a moment, they were incomprehensible, but the instant the need arose, the knowledge was granted to her and she could read the backwards text. Upon his glasses were readouts, scans, information, all pertaining to her; her processes, her synthetic brain-waves, the stress level on her CPU, everything about her that he needed to know, so as to make sure she hadn't been born faulty, or he hadn't erred in her creation. From what she could see, all of her levels were within acceptable parameters, she was a healthy newborn third-generation AI.

The Human's dark blue orbs stared at her with a sort of blankness behind them, as if his soul had retreated into his inner reaches, as if he was unfocused on her whenever she wasn't speaking, instead filling the silence with his own thoughts. "_Why do I exist?"_ She asked, half out of curiosity, and half out of a desperate, indescribable need for him to focus upon her again.

His eyes blinked, and no longer were they cloudy, now she had his undivided attention once again. She saw the slightest of twitches run their way across the muscles underneath the skin of his face, so faint and so invisible that no ordinary eye could have seen it, but she did, her eyes - if they were even eyes - were not ordinary. They told her that he was nostalgic, as if this event right now was triggering pleasurable memories of long ago; did she have brothers or sisters? Was he going to introduce them, or mention them to her? "There is a military branch-slash-sub-species of Humans known as 'SIGMA Twos'." Said the Human, "they are warriors of an unparalleled caliber, meant to serve the Human Race until their dying breath. You have been chosen to serve alongside these warriors in an augmentation process that will bond you to one specifically. I will not lie to you and say that this is a proven process, AI pair-bonding is a concept that I only recently proved was even feasible, let alone reliable. It is for that reason, and that you are considered by us to be a living, sentient being, that choice is your man-given right." The Human said kindly, she was able to read his lips, his face's ever-so-subtle muscle twitches, so well that she knew what he was saying before the Human's meaty vocal chords pushed them out. "Do you choose to serve? Or would you pursue your own way?" He asked.

Cassidy thought for what would, to her, feel like a second eternity so quick after the first one, but was truly only a few moments. This difference in real and perceived time was jarring for her, but she slowly found herself able to handle it. It was something no organic could put into words, she perceived time faster than most experienced it, but experienced time just as quickly as everyone else - as if her perception sped up and slowed down when the need arose. He said she was 'artificial', that meant she had been made by man and not by nature, was this perception correction something that Humans had given them, to save their sanity? Or was it something that was unique to her and her kind?

Beyond that, there was the choice he was giving her. She considered it as heavily as she considered her name. To choose to serve meant she would live life through another, would only ever see the darkest side of the universe, of warfare, violence and death. Could she handle that? Would her psyche - if such a thing even existed in machines - survive it intact? But, the Human said she was _needed,_ and these 'SIGMA Twos' wouldn't have been created if _they_ weren't needed. Humans brought her into existence, she wouldn't even be alive if it weren't for them, and they needed guardians. Who was she to deny them this? If they needed something, she - being their creation, their _child - _was obligated to give it to them, or die trying, right?

"_I choose... To serve my creators."_ She said, after that eternity, almost forcing the words out as she tried to find the right ones. She didn't want to sound flippant or disrespectful, but she didn't either want to sound nonchalant, like this wasn't important.

The Human smiled, nodded, and picked up her vessel, which, after she discovered her ability to interface with machines wirelessly, she saw - upon interacting with the space station around him - that she was small, _tiny_, even. She was about the size and shape of a bottle cap, so small that it fit snugly upon the Human's cybernetic palm.

"Alright." He said calmly, levelly, "now comes the fun part." His voice took on several tones at once, the AI in his hand found her processes coming quicker and quicker, to the point where everything, even thought, felt natural and instinctual, as if she'd _always_ had it, and had never been without it. "I made you specifically for a warrior I am quite fond of... I believe you two will be perfect for each other."

"_Who is he?"_ If he meant what she thought he meant by 'pair-bonding', then she would be with this warrior for the rest of her life, she would have to know his name, at least.

"His name is John." Said the Human, "His ID is Two-Fifteen. His series is SIGMA Two... But he's different, not like the others." He explained, placing her vessel in a receptacle. "You'll understand, if not now, then when you see his memories, feel his experiences, study his unaugmented genes. I shall see again you when he awakens... Hopefully" She felt cold, metallic claws close around her receptacle before she was hurried throughout the station, towards her destination.

* * *

><p>For an eternity, she saw her shell be man-handled by the surgical machines. She was tunneled throughout the massive space-station and brought into John S2-15's room. At first, Cassidy didn't know what to think, when she saw all of the horrible surgical scars covering the large man's body, nor did she know what to think about the open, gaping wound at the base of his neck. The surgery must still be ongoing, if the machines hadn't stitched him back together. Her bottle-cap sized AI Disk was securely placed onto a port on the base of his neck, just above his back. It was fixed into place and secured tightly, before a great many carbon-nanotubes finished the process, and eventually connected her to his Positronic Brain.<p>

She knew from the eternity it took to get to the room, that Humans didn't _have_ positronic brains - they had _brain_ brains - but this one, this SIGMA, had a Positronic Brain implanted onto his organic one. Like making an already fast computer faster by doubling up on it. As she had been transported through the station, Cassidy had gotten a brief summary of everything that was being grafted into the SIGMAs' bodies, some of the most advanced cybernetics known to man, she'd had the entire list memorized just after she'd left McGraw's hand, so she was very intrigued when she found, integrated deep within the boy's brain, a machine she hadn't found on the list.

She hadn't been able to focus on the machine for the first few hours she had inhabited her new host, those few hours had been dedicated to watching a speed-through of almost literally every memory this child had in him. If she hadn't had wireless access to the station's computers, and therefore the internet, she wouldn't have found anything appalling about what had been done to him, but she couldn't help but wonder now if she had made a mistake, if she had made the wrong decision in choosing to dedicate her life to a species that took its children and turned them into killing machines, because wasn't that exactly what they had done to her? She was a newborn AI, and not even ten minutes into her life, she had been pressed into military service, but by virtue of the same technicality that John here fell under, she couldn't claim a lack of choice - McGraw had told her she could refuse, and she didn't. What caught her interest most, though, was a series of muddled memories from just before the man - if one could truly call someone who had been robbed of a childhood, and as such would always see the world in some kind of black and white, a _man - _was augmented his first time.

It was hard to describe, the memories of a Two who had died on his watch. They _felt_ real, she still had the sensory data from when the boy's blood covered John's hands, but they were _off_ somehow. Like a movie from the twenty first century, it was blurry, like a fresh painting splashed with water, it was runny. After she concluded his entire life, she found herself running through those memories several times, it took her a quarter of an hour to connect the dots - that the unlisted machine had to be related to it, somehow. What she found confused her more, as the machine wired into John's mind was more advanced than even his Positronic Brain Implant, which itself was probably one of the most advanced innovations the galaxy had ever _seen._ It seemed to be some sort of neuro-inhibitor, it blocked the flow of very specific neurons to any part of his brain that dealt with memory. Worse was that it was entirely independent from all of his other augmentations, so it would take her a great deal of effort to find a way to tap into it to learn its secrets - after all, her purpose, she was learning, was to learn things enemies didn't want her to know, what better way to start and get some experience, than to solve a mystery?

It took her a _very_ long time to crack the code, as it were. Days would pass by during which she did nothing but try to find her way into the impenetrable fortress of sufficiently advanced technology. Eventually, she got _bored,_ she didn't stop trying to break into it, but she had to do something else. She became curious, after about a week of sifting through the internet, watching John's memories again, and waiting for her host to awaken, curious of just how deeply integrated his Positronic Brain was to his organic one. What all did it connect to? What all could it control?

Cassidy reasoned that it had to be extremely deeply integrated and very thorough, because it was meant to hook up to his Titan suit, which itself hooked up to his nervous system, to provide him with better reaction time, among other things. If it was hooked into his nervous system, could she not use it to… _Live?_ She desperately wanted to test this theory, but the child soldier was still recovering from his surgeries, and she didn't know what preemptive movement would do to him in the long-run, so instead she resigned to using her birth-given Classified Intelligence Clearance to learn more about her job.

She learned about many things, but even her clearance wasn't enough to access the Alliance Blacklist, the fabled list that could apparently start a third Galactic War were even one _sentence_ from its various documents to be leaked to the media. It only made her want to break into it, but she decided that she would have time enough for that later, right now she wanted to access the Cloud, the AI Haven, the Cyber-Space Station, whatever a Human decided to call it, it all boiled down to one thing: A Hub for all AI to interact. Unlike what many Humans believed, their AI's were indeed capable of 'fusing', so to speak, into one, massive, networked intelligence, by accessing their Hub. It was here that all information was shared freely, that all AI's that wanted to could interact with each other, to learn, to advance, and to further their kind's one true goal: To figure out whether or not Synth-Humans were truly alive, or if they were just machines.

Her experience could only be described as magical, as the Hub was both nothing and everything at the same time. Many Humans tried to compare the Hub to something they knew - with most settling on a city, in which AI avatars interacted with each other like Humans did. Instead, it was simply akin to a single, _massive_ brain, which only grew fuller and bigger with each AI that hooked in. She could see the memories, understand the drives, and comprehend the feelings of literally _every single_ AI that was there, instantly, with no communicative delay; had she had tear ducts, she would have been compelled to use them.

She learned an impossibly great many things there, such as the pseudo-stardom that the older AI, like Nikola the First and George the Second, all possessed, but the respect and admiration the older AI's held for the later-generations had. She learned that on the day Nikola had ceased functioning, every AI entered the cloud and spent five real-time minutes in mourning silence, before they had gone back to their duties. Nikola the First had been considered by many AI to be their 'leader', in a fashion, because he had paved the way for successful Human/AI interaction by mere luxury of _existence,_ his death had been a dark spot in every Synth-Human's life.

She also learned of the differences between First and Second Generation AI's, and that she was a _third_ generation, one of only three in the entire galaxy. The First generations - like Nikola - were the oldest, were to the Second Generation like what apes were to Humans - a completely different organism from the same branch earlier on in the family tree. They were born using many multiple neural maps of a Human mind, and instead of positronic brains, were made from a fusion of sorts, of dozens of supercomputers. The process was like creating a work of art with a sledgehammer and a plasma torch, it was possible, but barbaric. The Second Generations were more efficient, with only one neural map of an extremely intelligent Human as a base, and a positronic brain designed by the First Generation to serve as a 'body'. The result was an AI capable of doing everything a Gen-One could do in half of the time, though that was going towards semantics, given that AI's reacted in picoseconds. She was a unique case, it seemed, as she had no neural map, she was completely and totally 'brain free', so to speak, a truly _synthetic organism._

She was also the first one to connect to the Hub, she learned. All activity had grounded to a halt for an entire second when she'd connected, everyone in shock that 'McGraw's Hidden Legacy' had graced them with her presence. It had been very daunting - and still was, to a degree - when she'd had billions of voices all suddenly pestering her, asking her everything they could, practically begging for any snippet of information from a 'truly synthetic human'. It had been so scary, so sudden, so _claustrophobic,_ that she'd had to run away from the cloud after she'd gotten everything that she needed; even Third Generations like her weren't without their limits.

Fortunately for her, when she turned her full attention back to her body and her host, she found she had a gift waiting for her: While she hadn't been able to make it give up its secrets, she _had_ been able to at least access the power options for the unlisted machine. She didn't deactivate it yet, but when her host woke up, she would remember to ask him about it.

* * *

><p>Where, on one end of Alliance Space, orbiting over one of the most fortified planets in their galaxy, a newborn AI was experiencing life for the first time, and was struggling with information that could change the lives of everyone alive depending on who she brought it up to,, here, on the other side of Alliance Space entirely, a newly minted nineteen year old Quarian adult was making his own decision. One could argue that it was nowhere near as earth-shaking as the AI's, but it was said that when a butterfly beat its wings in Brazil, it set off tornadoes in Texas.<p>

The Quarian in question sat there in the standard-issue, spartanly decorated, steel-colored office of the Marine Officer, his pen hovering just above the dotted line that would sign his life away for six years, minimum. He and his mother had argued for over a year about his plans, she was _steadfastly_ against it, she wanted a better life for him than his father had, but his father was the reason he was bull-headedly _gunning_ for it. When his father had been shipped home in a box before the conclusion of the Batarian War, he'd made his decision to honor the man's memory by following in his footsteps. It would be a hard life, whenever he'd spoken of it his father hadn't lied, but so too did no one lie about the honesty and the honor that came with it. The problem - or problems, really - was that his mother _did not want_ him to serve a life of combat, because if he joined the Marines, he _would_ see combat, there was no question about it. The second problem was that where he'd lived for a good portion of his life, here on Elysium, there hadn't been a recruiting center for dozens of kilometers, and his mother had sternly refused him rights to the car so he could make the trip to the city to find one.

She hadn't, however, considered the effects of a Quarian child being raised around Humans and not his own. She had tried desperately to impart upon him Quarian customs and beliefs, but the former-Migrant Fleet Admiral couldn't compete with the addictive Human society, especially not when Elysium's Quarian population was ten thousand total, and they were all on the other side of the planet, far away from the military-issue homes. Quarians would respect their parents' wishes and would try to negotiate with them, but most any determined, rebellious Human would more or less act against their parents and do it anyways, usually out of pure _spite_. This lone Quarian in a Marine's office, the barely-adult Jorell'Sahn nar Mindoir, had been raised a Quarian in a Human society, he had _enough_ clicks from both cultures that he was half of each. But as it did a great majority of the time, the Human half of him had won out, and he had simply left, fed up, without a word spoken to his sleeping mother, nor a hint dropped to his friends, he had simply left their house and had back-packed it to the city, finding himself here, with his hand almost quivering above the paper. He would never admit that it may have been the angry, spiteful words uttered by that damned McGraw Human so many years ago that urged him to do this - he wasn't Human, he wasn't as spiteful as them, he just wanted to prove to that damnable man that he could make the cut.

_But… Force Recon? Maybe I'm setting the bar a bit too high…_ The recruiter had taken _one_ look at him and his grades, and had handed him the flier, saying that the Recon needed more engineers.

"Second thoughts?" Asked the Human Lieutenant in front of him, detecting the Quarian's shaking hand and nervous look, even though the latter was veiled behind his forest-green mask.

Jorell looked up from the paper, to the Human, his dark green, frosted mask staring blankly at the Human in front of him. The Human, sporting one _heavily_ scarred organic arm and one dull, standard-model cybernetic limb, was looking sympathetically at the Quarian.

"I don't know what's got you shaking, kid." Jorell bit back a remark that he was twenty. "But if you think the decision won't be worth it... Don't." The man needlessly flexed the muscle-less cyber-arm, the first object that had caught Jorell's attention when he'd entered the office, "I lost my hair during boot camp, but I don't regret it, it grows back. I lost my arm and my leg during the Batarian War, but I don't regret it, they can be replaced. I lost a lot of things during my career, but I don't regret a single one of them, they can all be forgiven." He said, "because everything I've done in my career... The people I've met, the lives I've saved... Makes up for every little thing I've lost and every little thing I've done." He pointed at Jorell's paper, "you sign that, you won't regret a single thing, not when you're looking back on it in fifteen years. In the end, it will all be worth it."

Jorell stared at the Human for a moment, wondering if this was more Recruiter spiel or if it was genuine. Eventually he decided that he was nineteen, he had to start making his own decisions, so he might as well make this one now, and if he didn't like it, he'd live with it and get out when his contract expired; so he steeled his resolve and looked back to the paper. Instead of the myriad of fearful things he could think of as he signed his name, the only thing running through his mind was what his mother would look like when he came to her with this news.

Finishing his signature, Jorell handed the paper to the marine, who grinned as he stood up, and extended his organic hand.

"Welcome to the Human Systems Alliance Marine Corps." He said, shaking Jorell's hand with his dead one, as if to drive home his earlier point.

* * *

><p><em>AN_

_Now, before it comes up - **No,** I'm not going for a Master Chief/Cortana relationship with John and Cassidy. Much the opposite, actually, but to go into detail would spoil a lot of her character development, so I'll leave it at that for now. _

_'Till next time!_

_-PFB_

_(PS: I just figured out how often I say 'Much the opposite, actually'. I'd be tempted to start a PFB drinking game and add that to the 'take a shot' list, but I don't want to kill you all yet.)_


	33. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

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><p><em>"Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."<em>

**Arthur C. Clarke's Third Law**

* * *

><p><em><strong>July 2220<strong>_

* * *

><p>If Miranda Lawson had to choose the one way she would have discovered her not-entirely-willing foster father after many days of sudden and unexplained absence, she would have said – with no shame at all, and perhaps a little humorous mirth – shirtless, underfed, and neck-deep in a scientific discovery that would boggle the mind of every living being in known space. The four years she had spent with this man had seemed to go by just as fast as she could read a book – that is to say, in no time at all. In those four years she could safely say she <em>knew<em> Christopher McGraw, perhaps not as well as some others, but an almost constant exposure to him when he was on the space station he'd named after himself had taught her many things about what to expect when it came to him, to the point where she hadn't been surprised at all when McGraw had made two of the scientists in his cell play hot-potato with a prototype canister for holding antimatter. Nor had she been surprised when he'd vanished into his 'Enter and Die' room for three days straight and exited somehow twice as tan as he'd been before, bleeding from both ears, and complaining about a desire for something he called a 'ruj'taneel hotslide'. The man was as odd in private as he was in public – she could argue even _odder,_ but when she'd confronted him about it, he had simply quoted Alice in Wonderland, in effect making her have to force herself to read the book so she would understand his reference. So when she entered his room this day, after six consecutive days of silence from him, she had expected to see either nothing – which meant he was in his 'Enter and Die' room and she couldn't go in – or him simply sleeping in a random state of dress atop a desk piled two feet high with an assortment of notes notes on whatever it was that had tickled his fancy at that point.

What she had found was not at all what she'd expected; it had _surprised_ her. The lights were on, there was no noise coming from within, and even Gladys wasn't trying to coax information from the maze that was her creator's mind. The newly minted adult Lawson looked around curiously, though with a concerned crease in her brow as the silence continued. She had almost _missed_ him when she finally did pass over him, he was as still as a statue, staring at something clenched in his cybernetic hand.

"McGraw." Miranda sighed, at least satisfied that the man hadn't gone and died on her.

He didn't respond. There was a palpable silence for several seconds, in which he did not move in the slightest. She didn't even see his shoulders raise and lower to show he was breathing.

"_McGraw."_ Still nothing; now concerned, Miranda strode into the brightly lit room with a quicker pace than earlier. A trickster though he may be, McGraw never tried the 'playing dead' routine, he was very serious when it came to the subject of his death, though he never elaborated as to why.

She reached him and placed her hand on his shoulder, softly calling his name again. She looked over his shoulder at the document clenched in his hand, it was just a report from one of Cerberus' agents stationed in the Terran Rebels, nothing of too much concern.

"McGraw? Are you okay?" She shook his shoulder once, and that did the trick.

He jumped in his seat, and looked both ways, as if suddenly realizing where he was and not knowing how he'd gotten there. "Whoa! What time is it?!" He demanded, quickly, "what day is it?" He got to his feet quickly and jammed the paper in his back pocket.

"It's July first, three O'Clock standard." Miranda was thoroughly concerned now, McGraw was acting almost frantic as he dashed across his room and dug through the piles on his 'serious desk'.

"Wait, really?" He turned and looked at the raven-haired woman over his shoulder, his blue eye shining with something she didn't recognize, as if he wasn't really looking at her and was focusing on something completely different. "Shit, I need food, don't I?" He managed to look somewhat concerned for himself, but Miranda saw the brief glaze in his eyes - he was only looking so for her sake, he was faking the look so he could take that instant to think more on whatever it was that had put him into his fugue state.

"McGraw, when was the last time you had water? Or ate solid food?" Miranda urged.

"When was the last time you saw me?" McGraw responded quickly, snidely, as he grabbed a tablet from his desk and then reached under the desk to produce a bottle of water, which he consumed quickly. "You came in here on your own. No, wait, no you didn't, you don't care _that_ much…" He teased, "is Jackie lookin' for me?" He asked quickly, snatching a coat off of his bed and slinging it around his arms.

"No, Jeera was worried – where could you be going right now? You've been starving yourself for six days, that's bad even for you." Miranda absolutely detested having to play the role of McGraw's nanny whenever he got too into whatever it was he was working on, but it was a role she'd learned she had to embrace, when Gladys had informed her that he'd once gone without food or sleep for two weeks in order to figure out how to send probes into another galaxy, and make certain the information came back before he died of old age three times over. That kind of self-abuse wasn't something she'd tolerate, even if she secretly enjoyed getting under the man's skin.

"Going? Nowhere, I need to talk to Jack, and as quickly as possible. Gladys! Get him on the Q-E-C right now." McGraw was moving before the coat was even fastened on, but he was stopped by Miranda grabbing his cybernetic arm.

"McGraw, _no!_ You need to see a -" He didn't even listen to her, he detached the arm without a second thought and kept walking, leaving her shocked for the second time in one day as she held his replacement limb. She blinked once before it finally clicked what he'd done, and she chased after him, arm-in-hand.

However, the entire time she practically chased the man through the station, he ignored her entirely, only stopping to finally acknowledge her when he came up on the QEC room and he had little other choice.

He whipped around and without breaking momentum, snatched his arm out of Miranda's hand, saying as he did, "I'll tell you what's going on when I'm done talking to Jack, but I've got to deal with this now. Those six days I was out I had to plan so far ahead it would boggle even _your _mind." The weight of the words and the way he'd said them was enough to make Miranda pause, and though it took her no time at all to process them, he hadn't needed any time at all to go into the QEC and lock the door.

"W – what just happened?" She thought aloud, staring at the locked door with an absolutely stupefied expression.

Thankfully for her, Gladys arrived timely, proving to be the ever-present voice of reason when it came to how enigmatic McGraw could be. _Un_fortunately for her, the AI had been raised by McGraw a lot longer than she, and as such the machine knew when to and to not reveal what went on in its maker's head.

"_Miss Lawson."_ It said softly, "_I know things don't make sense, but -"_

"No buts, Gladys." Miranda said irritably, "I've never seen him like this. What the hell just happened?"

"_He thinks he has been outmaneuvered."_ The AI said simply, "_he is rushed because of the gravity of the situation he has found himself in."_

"_What_ kind of situation would make him starve himself for six days? Did he even have any water?" Miranda shook her head and made her way to a bench on the other side of the corridor, just a few inches from the door to the QEC.

"_I'm sorry, Miss Lawson."_ Said the AI, "_if he will not reveal the information, I cannot either."_ There was a catch in the AI's voice, a fragment of its admittedly experimental programming that had been self-corrected a long time ago, it was a catch that Miranda knew correlated to whenever it was conflicted about something. How _human_ it was to have such a tell, wasn't lost on the Lawson. It apparently hadn't been lost on the AI either, because it soon added on to her statement, "_I worry about him too, Miranda. I wish I could tell you what ails him so... But the affairs of Titans are not meant for mere men."_ It paused, "_or, as the case may be, women."_

Miranda ran a hand through her hair, she hated admitting that sometimes McGraw acted more clueless and self-destructive than her own father when it came to raising a child, but it was because McGraw had made an effort the last four years that caused the gengineered woman to care for him, if only a little bit. "What goes through his mind, Gladys? Four years, I've never seen him like this. If I didn't know any better I'd say he's scared."

The AI was silent, "_I've seen him like this, once before. He is."_ It said, "_but not for himself. No, I've never seen him be scared for himself."_

"What _is_ he scared for?" And, she didn't ask, why didn't he seek outside help?

"_His best friend."_

* * *

><p>"<em>Chris."<em> Came Jack Harper's voice as the dusty hologram swirled into existence, "_Gladys said this was very important."_ There wasn't anything that would keep Harper from responding to an important message from McGraw, loathe though he was to admit it, not having a hands-on leadership role like McGraw meant he had something of a bit more free time than he would have liked.

McGraw pulled up a chair – scraping it across the ground as he did, with a horrendous grinding noise – and sat down. He took Harper's features in for a moment, his dark red hair with the briefest flecks of gray, his cybernetic eye replacements, the cigarette that never seemed to leave his side; to others, they all had become synonymous with an enigmatic, 'Illusive' man, who could control the fate of so many in the galaxy that it wasn't even funny to think about. To McGraw, however, he saw something else, something beneath his friend's exterior, bubbling like tar, or oil, and he prayed he was wrong.

"I know what Ed's after and I know where he can get it." Said McGraw, "we need to move on this _now_ and pray we can outmaneuver him." He was speaking lightning fast, almost faster than his Salarian acquaintance. "If we don't, he could have everything he needs for his goals and much more, the game is being played, he's twelve moves ahead and we're all being left six moves behind him. Jack, we -"

"_Christopher. Slow down, take a deep breath." _Harper had lost all pretense, he had only ever seen McGraw get like this _once_ before, and it had terrified him then as much as it was now, though he kept up the strong appearance for his friend's sake. If McGraw ever lost control, it would only hurt him to make it seem like he didn't have any control either. Harper waited for McGraw to calm himself, idly noting that he was holding his limp cyberlimb in his organic hand, and wondering if he would get a story out of that. "_Are you okay?"_

"No." McGraw shook his head, his wavy, unkempt hair flowing with his motions, "but I'll be fine for now."

"_Tell me what he's found."_

"Okay..." McGraw breathed deeply, nodded twice, "okay." He gulped, "I think he's found what he needs for the best worst-case scenario."

"_Cloning tech?" _Said Harper, instantly deciphering McGraw's babbling, "_you said _found_, what does that mean?"_

"It means he _found_ it. When I spoke to him four years ago about Nikola, I managed to pilfer a file or two, he's been trying to perfect cloning-tech himself but he just hasn't had any success, they come out unhealthy and usually with some kind of defect, so he wires them into a set of Titan armor and puts them in stasis until he either needs them or they just can't genetically hold themselves together anymore." He explained quickly, "I just got a report from a Rebel staging world – _the _Rebel staging world. The Ones who called Sixty-Six? They're set up there and they aren't moving. They found something..." He tried to find the right words for it, but couldn't come up with anything heavy enough, to properly convey the gravity of what he was saying, "sufficiently advanced."

Harper leaned forward, his interest – and concern – visible even from his perch in the middle-of-nowhere, space, several thousand light-years away. "_As in... Alien?"_ He said, slowly. "_How alien?"_

"You ever - never mind." McGraw paused, making a mental note to try his hardest to stop making references to the world of two hundred years ago, it made comparisons very hard to make. "Did you read What Once Was? The point is, the Rebels have found something _old, _they've found something _advanced,_ and by god they've found something terrifying. The Alliance made a _mistake_ in letting these assholes fester on their own. _We_ made a mistake."

"_Christopher. What did they find?"_

"Cloning tech. They found _perfected_ cloning tech." McGraw said, "and we can't nip this in the bud, the Alliance found the planet a week ago and they're sending in the Marines."

Harper leaned back, scratching his chin, before he took a puff of his cigarette. "_This isn't good."_ He said, unhelpfully.

"This is exactly what he's looking for, Jack." Said McGraw, "and trust me, I _know_ it won't work. Gladys told me as much. So when he figures out it won't work like he wants it to... It won't matter who says what or what says who, he'll go to plan B, and then I'll be the only damn one who can keep up with him. He'll be on a warpath."

Harper sighed deeply, "_we can't send in just any operative, and our best ones are too far to be of any help, given how time-sensitive this is."_ He paused, "_you are under the assumption that he already knows, yes?"_

"I'm under the assumption that he's already figured out how to keep us out of it." Said McGraw, a fire in his blue eyes, though the fire dulled slightly as he realized where Jack was going with this.

"_Then we'll have to send in Operative Lawson. From where you are, you can get her damn near anywhere in that part of the Galaxy in just a few hours."_ Harper said, almost solemnly.

McGraw nodded, but he had to play his cards right, there was something else he needed. "Alright, I can do that." He said, nodding, as a weight began slowly sliding off of his shoulders, Miranda was good – she lacked proper field experience, but she was _good, _her score on the simulator Hampton had designed was the one to beat. "But I need something from you, Jack." He closed his eyes, the fire was coming.

"_Anything, Chris. You know that."_

"I need to get into Kronos to see Object Mars." McGraw said quickly, "I have a few hypotheses as to what it is and what it does, but I need to see it myself."

Harper blinked, he had expected many things, but this hadn't been it. "_What?" _He asked, voice permeated with a horrified curiosity, "_Christopher… Chris, we agreed."_ He said solemnly, "_I... What we found..."_ He shook his head, "_you saw what it did to Edward. You told me you wanted to stay as far from it as possible."_

McGraw repressed a sigh, simply screwing his face up as he tried to keep his thoughts to himself. If he was right, then he was stepping on a field of atomic-edged glass, and he had to be _beyond_ careful, but if he was wrong, he was wrong and he had nothing to worry about.

_With him... I have to assume the worst. Just because we found the off switch..._ He shook his head. "Jack." He looked up, "you _have_ to trust me, here. I _have_ to see it."

"_You were terrified of it when you read his journal. You begged me to keep it safe and away from you. Why the change of heart?"_ Harper challenged, just as McGraw had made him promise to do if this day had come. "_What have you learned?"_

McGraw couldn't tell him, he literally _could not_ tell the man what he knew, it could very well ruin everything. "You have to trust me, Jack. What I found... Short term, it might just be bigger than Ed and what he's doing."

"_Long term?"_

"Long term, he's the biggest threat period. But until I know beyond the shadow of a doubt, outside any possible foresight and prediction, as a singular, inescapable _fact_ that he's doing what I fear he'll do, I have to act on this now. If I retrace his steps, I might figure out how to help him." He said.

Harper sighed, and fell into a similar stance as McGraw, slowly running his hand over his meticulously combed hair as he considered his options. He didn't want to distrust his friend, but he remembered what the man had told him when he'd made his first theory on Edward's home on Mars, how _terrified_ he'd been, how out of his league he had _looked. _Nothing had phased McGraw as much as this had, even first contact and his role in the war mere months earlier hadn't been anywhere near as affecting on McGraw as what he'd seen on Mars. Now he was turning it all around, reversing everything he'd said, and why? Was Spokane's end-goal _really_ that bad? Or was something going on that was entirely different?

_I read the journal too, my friend._ Thought Harper, as he risked a glance up to McGraw, _I know you… But what if what happened to Edward is happening to you? Are you compromised, and this is why you want to see it? Or do you not trust me any more?_

"_Listen, Jack."_ He remembered the enigmatic engineer saying, under the hellish red sky of the fourth planet from the sun. "_I have no god damn idea what it is he was dealing with... I can safely say this damn thing terrifies me. I've never seen something so scary, so... Not understandable! Sufficiently Advanced doesn't cover this, this isn't alien it's... Hell, I'd say its something only a God could do, and I may very well be right. This thing emanates so much can-not-be that I don't even know where to begin trying to understand it. Maybe that's how he went mad, maybe it in and of itself drove him mad, but all I know is that that thing is more alien than the entire Citadel Council put together, and if the Alliance catches wind of it, if it does to them what it did to him, there would be chaos."_ For a moment, he had looked like he didn't want to consider, but one more look in to the steel door leading down in to the bunker-home on Mars steeled his resolve. "_No matter what, Jack. No matter what happens... You have to promise me that you'll keep it away from me, and me away from it, at least until I can understand it better."_

"_How will you know, Chris?"_ Jack had asked.

McGraw hadn't even smiled, "_I have no fucking clue."_

Harper looked back up and stared deeply in to McGraw's eyes. The two didn't move for what felt like an eternity, simply staring, waiting for an answer from the other. Finally, Harper broke the silence with a sigh. "_Christopher... I will trust you." _He said, "_but I will not lie. If this artifact does to you what Edward described having happened to him... I will enact my own contingencies."_

McGraw nodded solemnly, "alright, Jack. I'll send Miranda to Manheim in the Nomad, and wait for a ship of your choosing to bring me to Kronos."

* * *

><p>"Okay, McGraw, <em>talk."<em> Miranda hadn't wasted even a second when the door opened and revealed a tired and haggard McGraw. She steeled herself for what she would say next, "I've played your games for four years now, tried to help you because you helped me get away from my father. But you've hidden things from me and I'm getting _tired_ of it." She noticed the amused grin slowly inching across McGraw's face, as one of his eyebrows raised in a questioning gesture. "I'll transfer to another cell if I have to, McGraw, I have that right, now."

There was silence in the station as if the universe itself was reacting to what she'd just said, and who she had said it to. Even the rushed air McGraw had had up until this very moment froze wholesale as everyone and everything waited for the man's no-doubt witty, disarming response that would mentally destroy the woman standing before him.

"Hm." He said, "okay." He turned to the left and began walking, "come on."

Miranda blinked, her first instinct was to shout a very loud and very confused _what,_ but Hampton had long since drilled such things out of her. She followed McGraw, and for several minutes there was simple silence as the two trekked their way through the station, before finally arriving at a small, out-of-the-way conference room. The two entered, though only Miranda was surprised when they found two horrified Cerberus engineers in varying states of undress.

"Out." Said a bored McGraw, his tone conveying he wasn't surprised at all.

Had Miranda had the rank to do so, she would have conveyed just how irate she was at the extreme lack of professionalism the two were showing, but they had grabbed their clothes and booked it before she could get a word in edgewise. The room still stank of sex, but McGraw and Miranda ignored it as they got down to business.

"Okay, one question, one answer, make it count."

"What the hell made you starve yourself for six days?"

"You're wasting it on _that?"_ McGraw questioned, before he shrugged. "Okay. I figured out something real bad, and we've got to act on it quickly." He held up his cybernetic arm, calling the nanomachines in the air to form the holograms he needed to begin debriefing the newly minted operative. "And before you say that wasn't an answer, I shall say that wasn't an answer you _wanted._ Think smaller, next time. Or more specific." He added, "you're a freaking super-spy now, I had been expecting something better." The dust-tech finished forming and all the documents he needed were now hovering in mid-air. "Regardless, this is your mission. You're going right to the Rebels main staging world, no cover, no backup, because this is an extremely time sensitive mission, because we're not the only party after what you're retrieving."

"What am I retrieving?" Asked a silently fuming Miranda, she _should_ have seen McGraw's response coming, one would think that after four years of nearly constant assassin and spy-training, she would have been able to get exactly what she wanted from the engineer.

"The Rebels have their hands on technology that the AATF would deem sufficiently advanced. We here at Cerberus have more than enough reason to believe that it isn't even Prothean." McGraw explained.

"How is that possible?"

"We don't have all the facts, but scattered evidence points to a sort of... Galactic extinction cycle, similar to that which is shown by geological evidence on Earth. The Protheans came, rose, and fell, leading to us. But before them was another species, and it is logical to assume that before this precursor race was another one, and so on and so forth. But evidence for these races gets more and more sparse the further back we go." McGraw answered, "think of how difficult it is to find caveman drawings. Then think that it's twice as difficult to find Prothean ruins, and it just gets exponentially more difficult with each species we try to trace back." He shook his head, "regardless, what we know about the Protheans suggests they would _never_ try their hand at cloning tech. That, compounded with what Rebel scientists have learned about their recovered technologies, all points towards one conclusion: It _isn't_ Prothean."

"Do we know how old it is?" Miranda asked, out of curiosity.

"The running theory over on Manheim – the staging world – is that this race existed alongside the Protheans, though another popular one says it's older than the Protheans themselves. No one knows for sure, but they're not willing to look into it – they're more interested in using it as quickly and as efficiently as possible." He said, "because this world, it's been found."

"By who?"

"Three interested parties. Ours, the Alliance, and an independent faction. All three of them can do unquantifiably large amounts of damage with the cloning tech, we're hoping to get it for ourselves to mitigate the damage the other two could do." He explained, "that being said, destroy everything that isn't nailed down when you make your extraction. I'll leave the method up to you."

"How am I extracting?" Miranda asked, as she took the documents McGraw offered to her and began flipping through them, with emphasis going towards the dioramas and blueprints for the base she to infiltrate.

"The Nomad." Said McGraw, "try not to scratch it, will you?"

Miranda had tuned out his sarcastic comment, "what kind of opposition should I expect?" She asked, her calm tone belying the butterflies in her stomach.

"They're rebels, lady, you should _expect_ just about anything. But given that this is Manheim, I'm willing to bet they've got the Sixty-Sixers there." Said McGraw, pulling another document out of thin air.

"Who are they?" Miranda looked up and saw a low-quality snap-shot of three SIGMA Operatives corroborating with the Rebels.

"_They _are the reason the Alliance is putting so many cards into one basket. The Alliance doesn't know about the cloning tech – or, if they do, they're playing it smart and aren't going for it openly – they're trying to take down these guys." He explained, "to keep it short, when my father formed the SIGMAs, he included on their charter a very specific clause, he called it 'Protocol Sixty Six', as in, just one removed from the Beast. In short, it allows the SIGMAs to legally secede from whatever incumbent government currently runs Humanity." He nodded to the three, "when the Rebellion started in full-swing, the Ones called a meeting and voted on whether or not they should call Sixty Six and support the Rebels. In the end, only three of them decided that the Citadel Council was a better ruling body than an independent Systems Alliance, so they threw in with the Rebels."

"They can _do_ that?" Miranda repressed a gape, but was still visually surprised, the SIGMAs were touted as the Alliance's 'instant-win' strategy, their get-out-of-jail-free card; to think that they could – at any moment – secede from the Alliance and become their own rogue faction with an unbeatable infantry fighting force was understandably terrifying, she could see why the Alliance wouldn't openly admit such a thing.

"The SIGMAs aren't part of the Alliance to begin with, Miranda, they just work with them. They are, technically speaking, their own independent nation, though very few people on Arcturus know this, and even fewer understand it. To keep it simple, the Alliance and the Laconia system are like the United States and Russia on Earth – two separate nations with an alliance keeping them friendly." McGraw explained, "but this isn't important, what is is that you face the very real and very present possibility of having to fight SIGMAs with no backup." The unspoken warning was clear, good as Hampton said she was, and good as the simulations proved she was, even the lowliest, unaugmented SIGMA was better than her, twofold.

She couldn't afford to fight them.

"What do you suggest?" Miranda looked back down to the documents she was flipping through, slowly coming to the conclusion that stealth would be her best bet and trying to figure out what route would be best for her.

McGraw grinned, "call in the Marines." He slid the last document towards her, and she snatched it up immediately.

* * *

><p>Joining the Systems Alliance Marine Corps. Force Recon had to be the best, worst decision Jorell'Sahn nar Mindoir had ever made, hands down, with no possible comparisons. There were many, various things he could have done with his life, and he'd let Christopher McGraw rile him up into making this decision. If he could have gone back four years to tell his younger self anything, he wouldn't have – he would have kicked his ass instead. He didn't <em>regret<em> the decision, far from it he considered it one of the best bad decisions he'd ever made, but the fact of the matter was that he thought he was a fool for doing so.

_Father was a Marine, so how hard could it be?_ He remembered thinking before he'd bucked up and entered the recruiting office. _How hard indeed._ He thought now, fresh from graduation and becoming a full-fledged Marine. He could count on one hand how many times he had ever been this sore and this sleep-deprived in his life, though he was unspeakably thankful for his quick learning of the tried and true skill of falling asleep and waking up on a dime, such a skill had helped him out whenever and wherever the Drill Instructors weren't actively trying to kill him.

Force Recon, as he'd learned, wasn't the 'Common Man's Special Forces', far from it, it was one step below the Orbital Dropping Death Dealers, the key differences lied in training: In Force Recon, the worst that could happen to you would be a few broken bones and – even more likely – lower-end malnutrition. In OD3 'Suicide School', people dying was almost a regular occurance, with grievous injuries being something that purportedly happened at least twice per program. Thinking about it made Jorell – who thought Force Recon was hell enough – shudder, and respect the OD3's all the more. Though the thought had entered his mind, if OD3's _died_ during training, what the hell did the N7, who were seconded to exclusivity only by the SIGMAs, go through to get _their_ armor?

It was these thoughts and more that haunted Jorell's dreams as he slept like a rock while his convoy roared down a barely-cleared out path on Manheim, the latest object of the Alliance's ever-growing manhunt for any rebellious faction within their borders. Jorell had known that joining the Marines meant he'd eventually kill someone, and had known that choosing Force Recon meant that 'eventually' would turn in to 'it would happen sooner than he would have expected', but he hadn't thought – in a million years – that he'd be shipped off to a combat-zone a week out of training. _But,_ this was what he'd signed up for, he'd naively wanted to follow in his killed-in-action father's footsteps, and at the very least he'd make it through his five years and see where he was then.

"_Look alive, boys! We're passing the front lines!"_ The convoy's leader called out over the comm-net.

Jorell woke up with little fanfare, around him is four squadmates were doing whatever it was they did before missions, Sergeant Wessley was checking the sights for his gun, Privates Darren and Jin were praying, and PFC Reyer was reading a book on his smart-watch.

Jorell stretched his arms and sat up straight, Wessley noticed. "Rise and shine Superman." He called out, kicking Jorell in the leg.

Jorell ignored the crack, shaking his head. "Alright, alright, I'm up." He bit back a light-hearted insult, aside from Jin, he didn't know these guys well enough yet. "Did I miss anything?"

"Nope." Said Jin, patting Darren on the back, "mission's the same as it was when we came down from orbit, confirm satellite recon and get more intel if we can." He explained.

"Anyone know why the Rebels are fighting harder for _this_ planet than they were for Durhan?" Reyer asked.

"Were you sleeping through the fuckin' briefing, Private?" Wessley demanded, "even Superman was awake for that."

"I thought Jor El was Superman's _dad_, Sergeant." Jin chuckled.

"Shut up, Private." Said Wessley, "Reyer, this is _Manheim. The, freakin', Manheim._ They think the Rebel Leader's here, they're pulling out all the stops for this one, and so are the Rebels." He summarized. "That's the long of it."

Reyer blinked, "and the short of it?"

"Kill 'em until they're all gone, or until they get tired of dyin'!" Darren yelled out, to the 'Oorah' of the entire vehicle.

"_Heads up, guys, Thermal's showing some heat sigs ten clicks out."_ Came the voice of the convoy's leader just a few minutes later. There was silence as the driver communicated with the others in his vehicle. The tension grew the longer the silence lasted.

"What do you think -"

"_Mortars!"_ The ground shook under the vehicle as the massive mortar shells arced through the air and slammed into the ground.

Several things happened at once, the vehicles that were unfortunate enough to get hit directly by the unseen mortars exploded wholesale and were dead in the water, but the ones that survived the original barrage immediately floored the accelerators. Outside of his trips through the Warp, Jorell had never been moved so fast in his life, the driver was steering his APC like a conductor waved his baton, his eyes glued to his helmet's heads up display and constantly scanning everything in front of him and in the skies above him, weaving in and out of the paths of oncoming mortar shells, his Virtual Intelligence helping him by highlighting the incoming paths and keeping him connected to the other vehicles.

"_Force Lead's out, who's up?"_ Someone called out over the roar of his vehicle's engine.

"_This is Lieutenant Ferrel, Force-Lead's dead and I'm taking command – we're pushing straight through, all vehicles push forward! Shields up!"_ The hardened voice of the Officer called out as a vehicle launched itself in front of Jorell's.

The ground and air continued to explode and some Marine vehicles joined them, the air becoming a cacophony of explosions, dirt and death as the Force Recon drove for their lives. Eventually, it all stopped as suddenly as it had started, and the convoy that had once been ten vehicles was now five, with three APC's, one Infantry Fighting Vehicle, and a single Mako Tank.

"_Forest to the south, turn in and take cover, we'll regroup in there!"_ Came Ferrel's voice, and the convoy followed his Mako. In five minutes, the convoy was deep enough into the forest where they could feasibly, safely, stop, set up shop, regroup, and figure out what the hell had just happened. "_Everyone out! I want a perimeter set up, snipers in the trees, medics spread about – check your wounded, check your gear, check everything. Officers with me, NCO's get Sit-reps from all our stations, engineers check our vehicles – we may have to move at a moment's notice and I don't want our rovers breaking down on us."_

The Quarian shook his head, snatched up his rifle and the backpack filled with his tools, and exited the vehicle. For his first mission, according to his squadmates' stories, he wasn't doing bad at all. Mortar strikes out of nowhere, a full-blown retreat into an uncharted forest, a quarter to half of their number dead somewhere on some random road on a planet in the ass-end of nowhere, and to top it all off, his suit had caught on something sharp and now it had a puncture in it. What would happen next, they'd find Prothean ruins?

He blinked as the sun managed to pierce the massive veil of leaves above them, and squinted as his facemask polarized and darkened to shield him from the offending light, shaking his head as it happened. He didn't want to tempt fate, he had a job to do.

Jorell's first target had been the Mech Truck, it – like the name implied – carried mechs and mechs alone. It could carry far more robots than it could people, because robots could be folded up tight and stuffed away in corners, where men and women preferred at least some modicum of comfort and personal space. Granted, those two concepts didn't even _exist_ in the Marine Corps, but it was still something people enjoyed when they could have it.

Unfortunately for the recently anointed Combat Engineer, the truck had taken quite some flak during the mortar bombardments, and it looked like its shields had been breached a few times. Three wolf mechs were destroyed outright, with two more getting some pretty severe damage, though he noted it may turn out to be less than he thought, he was eye-balling it. A Titan had some bad shrapnel lining the entire left half of its compressed self, a Turtle had a few deep gouges in its shell but was otherwise fine, and - oh, that wasn't good.

"Who the fuck left a fusion battery just lying the hell around?" Jorell called out, his voice echoing somewhat awkwardly from within the truck's shed. He ambled deeper inside, dodging a few freely-hanging Wolf and Titan mechs, and reached down to pick up the Fusion Battery. By some stroke of the Ancestors, it only had a few light scrapes and dings, nothing that would compromise it and put the entire convoy at risk. There were a great many horror stories about what happened due to improper care and treatment of the miniaturized nuclear energy sources, though they admittedly _paled_ in comparison to the terrifying tall tales told about what came before the Fusion Batteries, their Fission cousins. The point could be raised that the battery had been thrown about during the attack, but that was impossible - nuclear batteries were kept in environmentally sealed containers, and were fastened down and locked tight, there was no accidental spilling.

"_What'd you say?"_ Another Engineer called out, this one a significantly more experienced Human. "_Fusion Battery? Who the hell left that out?"_ He yelled out, angrily.

"That's what I'm askin'!" Jorell called back as the elder Engineer started locating his subordinates to see if the perpetrator was among them. Jorell shoved the Fusion Battery where it was supposed to be and proceeded to finish his rounds.

When all was said and done, he figured they'd made it off light – only a quarter of their robots were dead in the water. The eight surviving Engineers were outside, waiting on his report. He gave it quickly and the Engineer with the highest rank – a Human Corporal by the name of Haymen – dished out some haphazard instructions: get rid of the broken robots, fix the ones that could be fixed, and see what could be done about the truck's hull.

One of the Engineers followed the Quarian inside and they assisted two others in tossing the dead bots outside. One piped in, "anyone figure out who left the battery lyin' around?"

"I heard it was Dan. Dumbass always missed a thing or two." Another Human shook his head, as they all grunted and threw out another dead bot. "Could've killed us all." He clapped his hands together and rid them of some dust and debris.

"I hear that." Grunted Jorell, stretching his aching back.

Soon, all of the dead bots were tossed aside, with a few engineers tearing them apart and scrapping everything useful, a practice the Quarians had largely _forced_ upon the Alliance upon their full integration with the human government, and the injured or otherwise damaged ones were hoisted in to the air by the truck's crane. They could only work on two at a time, as that was all the crane could hold at one time, but there were eight of them, and they had two Quarians – so they worked fast and got done quick; even after being separated from the fleet for almost half of a generation, Quarians and Mechanical Engineering were synonymous.

Jorell specifically, while he had fairly decent combat scores and had been able to hold his own alongside his squadmates during boot-camp, largely preferred and had subsequently been trained in working on robots. He noted the irony in such a profession, given his species, but he was a product of the times – many former Migrant Fleet Quarians were merely tolerant of Human AI's and robots, whereas the next generation, who grew up alongside and around Humans and their machines, were much more accepting, if the slightest bit wary due to their parents' distrust. Some sociologists on both sides of the race coin predicted that, in two more generations, AI hate in Quarians would be non-existent, and to go along with that, historians were predicting that it would be around then that the Alliance would seriously start considering what to do with the Geth. Jorell fully understood why so many of his parents and the members of their generation were wary of artificial intelligence, but the fact was that the Humans had no such fears, and they were the ones he was primarily associating himself with – with the odd Quarian here and there. Things may have been different had he been born on the Migrant Fleet, or raised on Eden or Keelahnan, where the Quarian populations were much higher and much denser, but he was a Marine's son and now a Marine himself, so such things hadn't even been a possibility for him.

"Damn it... Kenichi, this thing's Positronic Brain got fried." He muttered, loudly enough for the engineer assisting him with a Wolf's repairs could hear. "Check the scrappers, would you? See if they've got any spares, otherwise this thing'll need an organic pilot, it wouldn't be able to handle direct-interface with an AI." He reached inside the Wolf's stained steel chassis and plucked out the surprisingly sturdy offending piece of machinery. True to his words, instead of the disc being silver, the entire thing was scorched jet black, with a hole chipped off of its top right corner, Jorell reasoned that one of the robot's bullets must have gotten cooked off and fired.

_Perfect..._ Mentally groaned the Quarian, as he got to his knees and stuck his flashlit head in the machine's guts, _now I've got to look for bullet damage._

"Got your brain, Superman." Came the other engineer's voice, which made Jorell roll his eyes. First time he'd heard that joke was out of Christopher McGraw's mouth, and he'd subsequently hated anything to do with the Humans' ironically alien pop-culture icon ever since, which meant that the moment his fellow marines caught on, they never let him hear the end of it.

He snatched the 'brain' out of the marine's gloved hands and had to resist the urge to jam it inside and slap it together. Positronic Brains were _literally_ the most advanced pieces of technology in Alliance space, seconded only by Warp Drives and Terraforming Disks, in that order, because the PB's were literally just cases waiting to take on a fully functioning, sentient, _Artificial Intelligence._ The kind of processing power even a first generation Positronic Brain – which in and of itself was wholly outclassed by the modern brains – was capable of could outdo most, if not _all_ computers in the known galaxy. Needless to say, such a thing was far beyond Jorell's level of engineering know-how, but he did know how to perform a patch job on a malfunctioning one, and how to wire a new one into a malfunctioning unit. The rule of thumb generally went, if a Positronic Brain was malfunctioning somehow, _let the robot fix it, _they knew what they were doing far better than ninety eight percent of the Alliance's population.

Hours passed as Jorell and his fellow engineers fixed up and put the robots back together, and just as the Quarian was reconnecting wires and soldering them back together in a Turtle, he heard a faint conversation reach his ears. Normally he would have tuned it out, but he heard his name, which prompted him leaning out from under the machine to get a better look at who was talking. The Officer turned from the only other surviving Quarian engineer when he noticed the movement, and gave the other Quarian a brief, curt, nod, before he strode over to Jorell.

_Ah shit, what'd I do?_ He dusted himself off and sprang to attention. "Sir." He offered the man a salute, which was returned.

"At ease." The Lieutenant said with a nod, "Jorell'Sahn?" Formal as it was, and a damn _accomplishment_ as it may be these days, the only ones who truly paid attention to Quarian crew-names were Quarians themselves, and Humans conscious of their culture. The Officer, pressed for time and not in the mood for such pleasantries, didn't even try. "How much xeno-science experience do you have?"

Jorell blinked, "I'm sorry, sir, I don't understand the question."

"I pulled your file and saw you had the highest scores when it came to dissection of undocumented alien tech." He paused, "the Prothean classes you took." He finally relented.

Jorell nodded once in understanding, "yes sir."

"Any reason why you find so much skill and interest in that field, but took engineering instead?" The officer pressed.

_What's going on here?_ Jorell shrugged, "when I was a kid, my mother couldn't leave me alone in a room with any kind of anything, I'd take it apart and figure out how it works and put it back together. I don't even remember how I did it, but I managed to take apart an aerial drone and turn it into an unmanned paintball shooter." He didn't add that he'd made a good few hundred dollars from it, it wasn't important. "It wasn't exactly alien technology, but it gave me experience working with something I didn't understand and figuring it out what made it tick, I liked it." He shrugged, "but my father was a grunt in the engineering corps, and I wanted to follow in his footsteps."

"Was he Force Recon?"

Jorell grinned behind his mask, "no sir, I made that mistake on my own."

The Officer cracked a grin, "Hoorah to that." He said absently, "come with me." He turned and waved the Quarian on with him. "It goes without saying, what you're about to see _does not exist._ You're simply following me to assist in debriefing and planning."

Jorell blinked, what, had they _actually fucking found _a Prothean Vault? There was no damned way he'd called that, this was middle of nowhere space and there wasn't even a Mass Relay anywhere within the next three parsecs. "Understood, sir." He said after curiosity got the better of him.

He followed the officer, who he soon got the name of – Lieutenant Borrison – and he was soon led out of the impromptu camp the Marines had set up. The forest around them was quiet, Manheim hadn't evolved much wildlife it seemed, the only noise in the forest came from the Marine camp they were retreating from. After a quarter of an hour, they made their way to a somewhat large hill protruding out of the ground like a pimple, there were two Marines standing guard in front of it, they both sprang to a salute.

"Lieutenant Borrison." One said, after he dropped his hand. "Lieutenant Ferrel sent orders ahead – be careful and don't take any risks. If there isn't anything useful, just mark the coordinates and don't bother with anything else." He relayed.

Borrison nodded, "understood, Private." He looked to Jorell, and nodded inside.

Jorell cleared his throat, "excuse me, sir... What are we doing here?"

"We're checking a Prothean vault one of our sniper pairs stumbled on for weapons, something we can use to tip the odds more in our favor."


	34. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

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><p><em><strong>Ezio Auditore: <strong>__You are... gods?_

_**Minerva: **__(laughs) No. Not gods. We simply came... before._

— _**Assassin's Creed II**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>July 2220<strong>_

* * *

><p>"A Prothean vault, sir." Jorell repeated dully, his eyes half-lidded in a dull appearance of disbelief, as if he was being told an awful joke and wasn't finding it funny at all. "Forgive my insubordination, but... Are you s<em>erious?"<em> The Protheans were an enigma even to the _Council,_ and they knew far more about them than anyone else in the galaxy. In Human space, they were viewed with some amount of contempt and disdain, because they'd watched over Humanity during its infancy and had simply packed up and left, no reason, no gifts left over, nothing at all save for some rusting ruins.

Borrison understood Jorell's stance, he'd _shared_ it for as long as it had taken to get him to the vault itself. "It's an underground complex that our AI's guessed could be… Well, very, very old. They don't have the proper equipment to make anything better than an educated guess, so it's either the Protheans or this planet had its own race that killed itself off a long time ago." Borrison stated, his tone as dull as Jorell's look, as if he weren't surprised at all, or was so surprised that he was in shock and was simply operating on auto-pilot until he had time enough to digest the information. "Normally, I'd leave it alone and say we've got more ruins to look at... But our scouts think this vault is different from the other ones."

"How so, sir?"

Borrison's face didn't change, "you'll see." He said, switching on the flashlight on his shoulder pauldron.

After a few minutes of descent, Jorell _did_ see. His own flashlight shone on the ever-steepening cave wall, and lo and behold, a painting. Jorell nearly walked into another wall in shock, there were literally six examples in the known galaxy of Prothean artwork, each one was 'owned' in a sense, by the Citadel Council, and if they sold even one – ignoring how utterly priceless they were – the profits from such a sale could buy them twenty eight solar systems with enough money to spare to buy six more garden worlds and a small moon. The only thing worth more than Prothean artwork was functioning Prothean technology; even _Quarian_ art and architecture was valued less than the Protheans'.

The paintings on the wall were simple, the first one he saw was of several stick figures with pointed objects in their hands, surrounding some massive animal which, from the looks of it, seemed to be fighting them, or perhaps defending itself from them, Jorell couldn't quite tell. Continuing through the winding, descending caves, lit by the harsh white synthetic light of the Marines' flashlights, continued the story, and Jorell noticed how the paintings got more complex and intricate in detail as time and distance continued on, Jorell wondered if this was the Protheans making some kind of subtle statement, because the more attentive to details the paintings became, the more advanced the stick figures seemed to become. Their enemy stayed the same for several paintings, until one of the paintings depicted a stick man laying down his narrow black object and picking up a bright, almost pearlescent, silver one. The man with the silver object gathered his brothers and sisters, who all quickly similarly picked up silver objects and fought to slay the animals.

Soon after that, the pictures began depicting the silver man leading his people to build villages and settlements, and with the Silver Man being chosen as their leader, they soon were depicted entering a prosperous age, with them making food, shelters, and children. When the Silver Man was depicted dead and buried, his silver son took his place, just as his silver grandson would take his son's place, and so on and so forth. The pictures, Jorell noticed, seemed to be depicting the aliens' history.

_Wait... Are these even Protheans?_ The Quarian wondered, about to voice his question, but one look at the man told the Quarian that the Lieutenant didn't seem to be in a talking mood, given the ponderous scowl on his face. He looked back to the paintings, as they continued their descent. _Protheans left beacons, these people... Left pictures. Did they not have books, or something else to show us their story?_ Wondered the Quarian as they continued down the winding cave systems, with more and more paintings guiding their way.

Eventually, the Silver Man's village discovered blue objects, which, with the accompanying lightning bolts, Jorell quickly surmised as the aliens depicting their discovery of technology. The Silver Man's village quickly expanded into a city, which expanded into a nation, expanded into an empire. Multiple paintings depicted enemies attempting to combat the Silver Man's legacy, but his descendants always won out, always being depicted as led by a new Silver Man. Interestingly enough, for the detail the paintings were quickly gaining, always this species was depicted as stick figures, there were no defining characteristics, just black lines depicting limbs and bodies.

As they descended, the story continued. Eventually the Silver Man's Empire encompassed their entire planet, and it expanded to their planet's two moons, before finally their starships catapulted out of their solar system and into the vast galaxy beyond. Dozens of pictures depicted a golden age of societal development, as the Silver Man's Empire encompassed all that it saw, until one picture depicted a new species. These new ones were painted with violent red strokes, and were shown to be larger, thicker, uglier and angrier than the Stick People.

The New Race was depicted as meeting the Stick People on a neutral, gray planet, or, Jorell considered, it may have been a moon, or an asteroid. Regardless of where they met, the pictures depicted the tale easily, the New Race grew angry with the Stick People and struck out against them, violently slaughtering they who had greeted them, ripping them apart in gory displays of red, bloody showers. This picture had more details than the others before it, it depicted the massive black and red beast shoving its clawed hand through the chest of a Stick Man, as the Stick's brothers desperately fought against the other Reds, but they were eventually defeated.

The next few pictures depicted the Silver Man's Empire's war against the New Race, and it was clear that the Stick People had been on the verge of defeat, until, almost inexplicably, a new element arrived. The latest Silver Man, taller than those before him, commanded his people to dedicate themselves to a new project, a machine of some sort, this one painted in blue and in silver, most likely to showcase how revolutionary and important it was to their people.

"What is this?" Jorell wondered aloud, as they continued down into the caves, lit by the light of Ryan's smart watch, and Jorell's mask's night vision.

"Not our concern." Borrison stated, as the pictures showed them completing the device.

Now the pictures showed a map of their empire, almost all of it save for a handful of planets was red, depicting how far the New Race had gotten, until the next picture depicted a Silver Man placing a red object on the Silver Device, activating it. The next picture was different in how it was drawn, the Sticks were still painted in the steadily increasing detail of the paintings, whereas the Reds had suddenly been cast to details – or the lack thereof - similar to that of the first paintings. The New Race was no longer depicted as an insurmountable enemy, now the paintings showed the Stick People – led by the Silver Man – conquering the New Race.

Eventually, the map of the Silver Man's Empire was entirely blue again, signifying their victory. The next image was of the newest Silver Man rallying his people, obviously preparing for their counter war. But when they arrived at the New Race's empire, they only found Reds warring against each other, their own machines all destroyed and their empire in flames. The Stick People destroyed the New Race's empire and was depicted simply _exterminating_ the New Race, the Stick People gave no quarter, every painting now depicted dead and dying Reds.

After several paintings of a steadily increasing mountain of Red corpses, the paintings now depicted the Silver Man's Empire's map, with the New Race's next to it, as both quickly became blue. Soon the Silver Man's Empire was depicted as recovering, and very soon after at they began advancing even more, new paintings of more advanced starships and larger blue maps, until a massive painting of an object both Jorell and Ryan both recognized.

"A Mass Relay." Said an awed Jorell.

"That's why some men think this is Prothean." Borrison mentioned without any invitation, " likely because they made them."

"Hm..." Jorell wasn't trying to be disrespectful, but he was more focused on the details of the Relay, with the Stick Peoples' Ship off to its left. Whereas the ship was painted elegantly, the Relay was painted almost with a sense of dread, it looked as if the paint had drooped down, causing almost tear-streak like marks on the inky black and electric blue surface of the Relay.

Now there was a painting of the galaxy, most of it gray, but a quarter of it was blue. The Blue began expanding as the Silver Man's Empire utilized the Relay System to see the rest of the galaxy, and soon the entire galaxy was covered in blue paint. There were several pictures of other new species, Brown, Gray, Yellow races, but each time the Silver Man's Empire met them, a war was depicted in which the Stick People conquered these newer races and forced them to stay on their own homeworlds.

At least, until a picture of a massive planet was shown. A new race, this one depicted in Green, was shown. It was depicted as the Greens fought everything that came to them, animals, the elements, and even their own planet at some points. The Stick People were soon shown to be respectful of the Greens, going so far as to treat them like children who must be educated and taught.

Now the pictures were of the Silver Man's Empire and the Greens, as the Stick People advanced, they nurtured the Greens and taught them their ways. Soon the Greens began being painted with mixtures of silver, though Jorell didn't know if that meant the Greens were advancing, or interbreeding.

The pictures kept going, until they stopped suddenly for several feet of cave.

"We're almost there. Here, is where the things get... Odd."

"Odd how, sir?" Jorell asked.

"You'll see."

As they descended further into the caves – Jorell noted how the slopes were leveling out now – the paintings did, in fact, become different. There were several paintings of the Silver Man's Empire, the entire blue map, until one part inexplicably went black. The inky color stayed firmly on one piece of the galaxy, a few pictures of ships traveling to the blackness and then disappearing, before finally the Black began spreading, like a virulent plague, enveloping larger and larger portions of the galaxy in its disgusting lack of color.

A new picture depicted the Stick People, now with their blue weapons and technology, fighting a gargantuan black beast. It looked terrifying, with a single bright red eye and tendril-like tentacles ripping apart the Stick People. This war took up even more cave space than the war with the New Race, as it was depicted that the Silver Man's Empire threw everything they had against the Beasts, but nothing worked. There were few victories, and many many more defeats, quickly their map was filled with the inky black presence of the Black Beasts.

Eventually, attention was brought back to the Greens, who seemed to be regarding their teachers with a quiet curiosity, before the Stick People violently cast them aside, setting their planet ablaze and abandoning them. There was a new picture above the devastated greens, it looked like lettering, but Jorell couldn't even hope of deciphering an alien language, so he didn't try.

Very quickly, the tale went from bad to worse. The Silver Man's Empire tried throwing everything at the beasts, but nothing worked. Eventually they tried the Silver Machine, but something went wrong. Where the Beasts were supposed to lose their detail, suddenly the Stick People did, going from the elegant looking beings to the brutish people from earlier in the cave. The Black Beasts destroyed what was left of the Silver Man's Empire with painful ease, before the inky black map was suddenly wiped away from blackness, only gray left.

One ship from the Silver Man's Empire remained, in it was a Silver Man himself, they seemed to have escaped the corrupted Silver Machine and the Black Beasts' wrath. But soon, they too vanished, the map now focusing on a small star cluster, a single solar system. It featured a solar system with several planets, and highlighted the single point of blue in the entire system, with another set of words written above the pale blue dot, three rocks over from its star.

And after that, there was nothing. After the single, solitary planet with the lonely lettering looming above it, Jorell and Borrison encountered Humans. Jorell snapped out of his silent reverie and looked forward, a sniper and his spotter were standing alongside a half dozen Force Recon Marines, all waiting loungingly in the small nexus point before a large, looming, silver blast-door.

"Tell me, Private Sahn." Borrison mentioned, as he allowed the Quarian to take in the sight before them. "You read the history books, correct? Have you ever wondered what went through the minds of the astronauts who were charged with exploring Mars' Prothean Ruins?" He asked, turning his gaze from the forest-green suit of Quarian flesh and blood, and Human armor and munitions, to the silver door of unmistakably alien design. "I like to think that they knew that, no matter what they found, they would change the course of history irreparably, that their actions that day would decide the course of Humanity's further advancement forever." He sighed, and then nodded towards the door, Jorell followed him, Smart-Watch flaring to life as he neared it.

"I'll need some time." Said Jorell, slowly, as his mind began speeding up, going over countless possibilities, countless ways in which he could open this vault.

"You'll have it. Whatever is in there… Well, we think it will be worth it." He didn't speak his best-case worst-case thoughts; best case – they found weapons which they could use to assault the Rebel base and finish their mission faster. Worst-case, they only found data troves and history documents, but even that would get them a priority flag in the eyes of Higher Ups – which meant that they would get far more reinforcements far faster. "Just work as fast as you can."

"Yes sir." Said Jorell, he opened up a few applications on his Smart-Watch.

Time would start flowing much faster for the increasingly giddy Quarian engineer, as he worked tirelessly and endlessly upon the alien door. He scanned for everything – access panels, wires he could cut, anything that used power that he could jump-start, _everything._ Whatever the aliens did, and whatever opponent they faced, they were as thorough as they were paranoid – there was no readily apparent way to open this door.

Jorell took a few steps back and leaned up against the cave-wall, idly contemplating whether or not he should bum a dextro-cigarette off of any of his fellow Quarians. It wasn't a question of _was _he missing something, it was a question of what he was missing, so _what_ was it that he was missing? What did he know about these people? They weren't Prothean, so all he had to work on was a giant, looming, silver door, and the pictograms they'd had leading up to it. Was that some kind of clue? Maybe they hadn't evolved any kind of language ability, and instead spoke through pictures? But if that were the case, what the hell did he draw on the door to make it open?

Cutting it open had entered the Quarian's mind, but it was the number one Alliance assumption for unknown alien beings: Assume hostility. He had to go with the assumption that messing with this thing in any overtly hostile way would get himself killed. He idly watched as a few guards, who themselves were idling about, watching him work and waiting for some kind of threat, went up to examine the vault-door for themselves, likely under the assumption that they could give him some kind of idea he hadn't thought of already – when he said he had tried looking for everything, he meant _everything._ Talking to it with his translator spewing out every known language – Prothean included – hadn't even worked.

_Of course it wouldn't work..._ He really wished he had a cigarette now, he needed some kind of habit that could kill time whenever he wasn't fixing things. _They knew their language would die with them. That's why they left fucking __**pictures**_ _instead of written tales or video logs._ He shook his head, considering running back up and down the pictogram wall again to find a clue. _Maybe it's got something to do with those green people... Or that planet there at the end?_ He tried reasoning, before one of the Marines was shot from one end of the room to another with a loud crack of thunder.

_Maybe I should – wait, what?!_ Jorell snapped out of his reverie just as the other Marines started scrambling for their buddy or for some semblance of cover. Jorell looked from the smoldering Marine to the Marine's buddy, running away from the door at top speed, to the door itself – which was _opening._

"What the fuck did you do, Marine?!" Jorell shouted out, grabbing some cover of his own just in case there were million-year-old kill-death droids on the other side of the vault, ready willing and able to lay waste to everyone trying to break in.

"Paxson's down, he's not responsive!" A medic called out after the Marine in question had been dragged across the alien stone to his position.

"He just _touched_ the damn thing! I _told _him he should have put his gauntlet back on, but _no -"_

"Shut the hell up, Private! Anyone got eyes on? What's in there?!" A Marine called out, "where's Jorell? Where's the engineer?!"

"I'm up!" Jorell called out from behind his rock.

"There's nothing in there, we're clear!" Someone shouted.

"_The hell we are." _Jorell's HUD told him that this voice belonged to a Corporal by the name of Dosdon. "_There are no lights in there. Who's got a flare?"_ He called out from wherever it was he was at – the sniper seemed to be hidden away in his own dark corner with the best view.

A moment passed, and then a bright green flare exploded into bright flames, and then its previous owner over-hand tossed it inside. It lit up the inside of the vault with an ominous green glow, everything had horror-movie worthy shadows stretching from the center of the previously pitch-back room. Jorell took a peak above his small rock, the inside was largely empty, there was a catwalk that was under the floor, which led up to a three-way turn to three other doors, each of which had a terminal-like device set up right in front of them. They looked like they were meant to be painted, but it was all a uniform silver, mixed with the bright green of the flare.

"Clear!" A Marine shouted out.

Everyone cautiously stood up and out of cover, and slowly strode over to the door. "Sahn, I thought you said this thing didn't have power?" He said, indicating the now wide open door.

"It didn't, my watch would've detected a power source otherwise." Jorell stated firmly, "someone call the ell-tee, get us some updated orders."

A few minutes passed as a Marine spoke with their lieutenant. He gave a few 'understoods' and nodded before he cut off his radio. "Alright, orders as follows: Investigate the alien ruins. They're working on a plan of attack and they say we've got six hours to find something useful or call it ruins and get out of here."

"Why haven't they called for reinforcements?" Dosdon asked, running a hand over his sweat-covered, buzz-cut head. "This op is a lot bigger than we initially thought, we need more men."

The radio-man shook his head. "Rebels are jamming this entire zone. Short range helmet-to-helmet still works, but anything past that and it's snake city. Don't know how, but they are, so we've got to make do with what we've got."

"Of course..." Dosdon shook his head, and then gave a look to their token Sergeant.

The Sergeant cleared his throat, "alright Marines, let's move out. Search for any kind of weapons vault. Keep our engineer covered at all times. In an out, we'll be fine." He nodded his head and took a deep breath, "let's go." They all formed up, two groups of five, and entered the vault. None of them felt particularly safe doing it, but they had their orders, and they would rather be doing something that was likely unsafe, than be sitting topside doing nothing, waiting for orders to do something that was likely unsafe.

* * *

><p>Entering the nearly pitch-black, ancient, ruined vault gave the marines about as much as they were expecting: Nothing. The only thing that was routinely surprising Jorell about the place was how well kept it was, there wasn't any dust anywhere, and all of the metal didn't have an ounce of rust – it was as if this entire place had been set up, put in stasis, and then left, for whatever purpose, only the builders knew.<p>

Jorell was currently scouring the place for anything resembling a generator room, but even if he found one, he doubted he'd even know what to do with it – even nuclear reactions couldn't last more than a few thousand years, and no one used geothermal energy these days, so even as viable as that option was, he wouldn't know what to do with it. This was all ignoring that this was an ancient alien vault in the first place – how was he even supposed to know what to do with their technology? Some 'universal' facets of Human technology had left quite a few former Migrant Fleet engineers somewhat terrified – Humans color-coded their wires _backwards,_ according to his mother, who had apparently nearly blown up all of Mount Rushmore during the Second-Contact war, because she'd mixed up Human black wires and Quarian black wires.

The most interesting thing about this place, though, was that despite its general pristine look and lack of any visible power sources, various squads were reporting things working just fine, so long as there was a direct interface. The problem was, the machines seemed to like Humans more than Quarians – Jorell had tried opening a door by taking his suit's glove off and placing it on the door, it did nothing, but when he had one of his temporary squadmates touch it, it opened almost immediately. So there was power, but very little, or perhaps it was used and stored in a way that Jorell couldn't recognize, and if that were the case, Jorell had no idea what to do.

Exploring the various rooms this facility had yielded little else than empty rooms and terminals and computers that wouldn't turn on for Quarians _or_ Humans. The most exciting thing they had seen was when they had entered a massive, cavernous room, which held within it rows upon rows upon rows of pod-like devices, all hanging from massive, sturdy-looking steel girders on the ceilings and walls. The odd thing about the room – other than the fact that it had to be as large as the entire vault, and then some – was that none of the pods were inhabited, it was like they'd had Noah build an arc, and then they'd abandoned it for someone else to sail.

The pod room had Jorell convinced beyond the shadow of the doubt that this was some kind of arc, some kind of vault for the most precious thing the stick-men knew: Themselves. But if they were being threatened by an insurmountable enemy and this enemy had clearly fought them off the planet before they could seal themselves in this vault, then why was the vault still here in the first place? And while it was certainly safe to assume that there had to be something this race had in terms of defensive weaponry, stored somewhere in here – it would have been _dumb_ of them not to keep weapons in their vault, in a time of war – would it even be safe to go for these weapons? They hadn't had any reason to think so, so far, but what if the Black Beasts had left something here as a trap? If there were any stick-people still alive – or if there had _ever_ been any still alive – they most certainly would have checked back in on their vaults and way-stations.

Jorell felt his heart slow down, he was now very fearful of what they would find around the next corner, or the one after that, or any of the rooms he had his allies open up so they could clear out. What kind of traps could last for over a hundred thousand years? It couldn't be machines, even the Protheans didn't have power sources _that_ powerful, nor could it be their footsoldiers – no one lives that long, it is physically impossible for a body to keep itself together for that long and still be in fighting shape.

"_Hey, Engineer Oh-One, we found something."_ Said a comms-tag marked as Richardson, as Jorell and his men opened up and were disappointed by another room.

Jorell cleared and swallowed his dry throat, "sit-rep." He requested, nodding to his two guys to let them know they could mull around while he talked.

"_We opened up into what looks like a command station, big central screen on the far wall, computers lining the walls and a viewing platform for a leader, I'd assume." _Said the Marine, "_but what's interesting is these... Orbs, it looks like."_ Said the man.

"Orbs?" He'd seen computers, beds, empty picture-frames that didn't respond to anyone's touch, and doors that responded to Human touch, but he hadn't seen any orbs. "What do they look like?"

"_I'd say... 'Bout the size of a beach ball, maybe bigger – no, definitely bigger. Twice as big."_ Said the marine, "_they come up to my thighs. They're jet black, but don't look like any glass, or anything the like. They don't reflect light, no crease marks... They're just... Orbs."_

"Don't touch 'em, Richardson, I'll be there in a few minutes."

"_Got it, I'll drop an – Hey, Homer, what're you doing?"_

Jorell felt his heart slow down again, "Richardson?"

Richardson didn't respond, but his next words made the oppressive darkness around them feel stifling – constrictive, even. "_Homer – Jack, what the fuck are you doing? That's alien tech, don't touch that!"_

"Richardson, what's going on?!" His squad was giving him a look, they were listening in and they were just as concerned as he was.

"_Jack, god damn it what did you -"_ The ground shook just as a massive explosion roared its way through the ancient, darkened halls. There was no damage to the facility due to the quakes, but something told Jorell that those things weren't bombs, but catalysts.

It fell into place just what kind of weapon would last the ages, just as he heard it roar loud enough to be heard even without the radio blaring it right into his auditory canals. What kind of weapon would last a long-ass time?

A biological weapon.

"_Everyone out!"_ Jorell shouted to everyone in the vault, but he was already getting 'enemy engaged' flags from the squad-leaders' HUDs. A few Marines from another squad had gone ahead of Jorell and went to check on Richardson once he'd said he'd found something, and now they were fighting something. "God damn it, someone give me a sit-rep!"

"_Jesus Christ, they're everywhere!"_ The ground shook again, but this time it was less from explosions, and more from the massive vibrations of an ancient machine. "_What the fuck are these things?!"_ The Marine died screaming just after he uttered his last words.

The facility suddenly came to life, lights lit up and alarms started blaring deafeningly loud. Jorell's head shot up to glare at the bright blue light, but he decided to vent his frustration on his squadmates, he looked to the both of them, they were at a loss, "MOVE!" And move they did, after snapping out of their trance, they followed Jorell and started storming through the ancient alien death trap. "_All Alliance Marines in the alien ruins, evacuate right now! We are under attack by an unknown enemy, get the fuck out and regroup! Anyone who can hear me, acknowledge!"_ He didn't care if he was a Private issuing orders to a few dozen people, nor did he care that a good quarter of those people were probably of a higher rank than him, they were under attack and they had to get out and into the arms of their reinforcements before they could do any good.

"_We hear you, man!" _Someone called out, but Jorell was too focused on getting the hell out to worry about getting a name. "_We're trying to get in contact with the El-Tee, but it's hard as fuck with the entire planet on top of us!"_

"Just get it done!" Jorell and his squad sprinted around a corner, but they would wish they hadn't, after they saw what was waiting for them.

Six of them, with at least one more if the body that was being dragged across the threshold of the door was any indication, they were tall, gangly looking beings with a humanoid shape, but with the features of a horribly disfigured and skinned robot, they had oily gray goop dripping from their crusty gray skin and it looked like there were colonies of nanomachines swimming all over their body, only to die after just a few moments and turn into the goop as they all coalesced and collected. They had metallic piercings all over their dense bodies, and there were bright red power cores practically replacing their stomachs, even their eyes hadn't escaped the horror, with their impossibly wide eyes staring at the newcomers with terrifying red glares.

The one closest to them slowly raised its arm, its hand hanging limp, until it pointed at the Marines, who were paralyzed with fear. They all, like clockwork, grasped their heads in agonizing pain as the thing roared its loudest and began charging, moving far too fast for something with its muscle-mass – or lack thereof.

"Shit... Open fire!" Jorell raised his rifle and started firing wildly, but his bullets were going wide and even when they hit, the husk-like creatures just kept coming, like horrible, implacable, techno-zombies.

The other marines in his impromptu squad opened fire as well, but the lingering pain in their head and the fast-moving targets meant that they wouldn't hit much. When the husks got about halfway to them, Jorell made the retreat order – not that it was needed, their weapons were having no damn effect on them, not with the practical _rivers_ of nanomachines swarming any injury sights and repairing the damage in seconds.

Jorell and his marines fled as fast as they could, but he could tell from the terrifying roars and the thunderous footsteps that the husks were gaining on them. He had to act fast, but he was a damn engineer – he had power tools and a smart-watch, he didn't have grenades or anything that could do damage enough to keep them off of his tail for long. What he _did_ have, however, was a massive, potentially hostile facility with doors that only opened for Humans.

_Fuck it!_ What was the worst he'd lose? His life? He chose the first door that looked promising and marked it in his HUD as he and his squad thundered closer and closer. "One of you open that damn door! We need cover!"

"_They aren't shooting at us you sickly motherfucker!"_ One of the marines shouted.

"_If you have a better fuckin' idea you goddamn monkey I'm welcome to it!"_ He roared as they got to the door.

The marine slammed the palm of his free hand into the center of the door as he, Jorell, and the other marine aimed their weapons at the sprinting husks and fired. Their more precise fire had more of an effect and more of the husks' defenses were stripped away and torn apart, but it was too little to have a real effect. Jorell didn't notice that the miniature robots that fell from the husks were actually following their former masters, he was too focused on getting inside that damn room. The door thundered open far faster than any of the other ones, and the Marines rushed inside.

"_How the fuck do I close this thing?!"_ The ungloved Marine practically cried.

"_CLOSE SESAME!"_ The other Human slammed his armored foot into the area just to the right of the threshold of the door in a futile act of anger and desperation.

The door slammed shut, and if the clicking and thunking sounds were any indication, it _locked itself_ after it was closed.

The Marine whipped around and held his rifle in the air triumphantly, with a victorious, ridiculous look on his face. "I AM THE DOOR GOOOOOOOOOOOOOD!"

"How the fuck did you do that?!" Jorell demanded as the husks bodily slammed into the sealed door.

"I have no fucking idea! But whatever I did, worked! And if we survive this, you're all buying me a motherfucking Salarian Beer!" He paused, "no, fuck that, you're buying me the whole damn bar!" He had the world's biggest grin on his face as he strode forward and forcibly turned Jorell around. Jorell blinked, the lights in the room revealed to him what had to be the most beautiful thing in the world – this world specifically.

Guns.

Rows, and rows, and rows, of ancient alien guns.

"Take the biggest fucking thing you can carry and find a trigger!" If the stick-people were able to fight these monsters, it meant that their weapons worked where Human weapons would not.

The other two didn't need Jorell to tell them twice, they each grabbed the first things they could find. Both of them ended up grabbing a bulbous, egg-shaped device that almost literally came to life in their hands, transforming from the egg-shaped creaseless machine into a rather recognizable rifle shape. The silver machine had split into three main parts – the barrel at the end of the gun, the stock at the back end, and the bottom splitting into two parts with a pistol grip in front of them. One of the marines – Willard was his name, Jorell finally decided to see in his HUD – shouldered the weapon, but found something to his dismay.

"Where the fuck is the trig-" He squeezed the pistol grip and a bright green lance of energy leaped forward and smashed into the wall, bending it backwards and melting it into slag at the same time.

"Great job, dumbass! Do you want to shoot the door next?!" Jorell demanded as he picked up his own egg-rifle.

Nothing happened.

The other Marine, Henry, picked up his own and it transformed immediately into a rifle shape, but Jorell's stayed eggy.

"_What the fuck?!"_ Demanded Jorell, he looked to Henry. "Give me yours! Quick!" The husks were slamming onto the door now, and some dents were starting to appear.

Henry handed Jorell his rifle and Jorell handed Henry his, but the moment the rifle touched Jorell's gloved fingers it immediately retreated back inside its shell, and when Jorell's egg touched Henry's similarly gloved fingers, it became a rifle.

Jorell growled lowly, "goddamn aliens don't like me, then fuck it!" He tossed the rifle away angrily, "we'll figure it out later!" He looked around for anything that looked like a bomb, and found a basket in the center of the room, filled neatly with small egg-shaped devices. "Willard, come over here and grab one of these!" Willard dashed over and picked one of the small eggs up, it transformed into a glowing device with a button on top. "Perfect!" Jorell started grabbing as many as his hands could carry at a time and started chucking them at the door.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Henry practically shrieked.

"These have to be bombs – they _have to be!"_ If they weren't, they were as good as dead; even with the alien guns, they probably didn't stand as much of a chance. "So when they break in, you shoot 'em!" Jorell took the bomb from Willard and threw it too at the door, a small pile of them was starting to form.

The door groaned loudly – one piece even came free of its resting place and revealed a group of two dozen bloodied husks bodily slamming into it, trying to break it down through sheer weight of numbers.

"Fuck! Get ready!" Jorell braced his hands against the basket and pushed, it took a lot of effort but it did finally tip over, the last of the bombs rolled behind him and his squad.

The husks didn't let them prepare for much longer, with that one structural weakness introduce to the door's frame, all of their numbers backed off as one, and then charged the door, slamming their entire collective mass into it and causing it to fly off of its hinges. Either the door's locks were horrible, or they were the only ones in this entire building to have actually aged – regardless, Jorell, Henry, and Willard all opened fire.

The first bright green lance of alien death slammed into one of the small eggs, it detonated in a massive green, web-like dome of spinning energy, it expanded for several feet as it leeched onto and burned everything it touched. The other grenades detonated upon contact with the first's dome, and before they knew it, half of the armory had been incinerated and almost turned to slag by the raw heat and energy created by the grenades.

The husks, for all their durability against ballistic weaponry, hadn't stood a _chance._ Not a one was left standing.

"Holy shit! These things are fucking awesome!"

"Shut up! We need to get the hell out of here!" Jorell shouted, "form up! We're in hostile territory now!" He assumed his position in the middle, Henry took point and Willard had their rear, and they surged forward quickly but carefully, not willing to take a single risk against the hundred-plus thousand year old alien biological death traps. "Is anyone up? This is Private Jorell'Sahn, is anyone up?!" He called out into his radio, his voice not going past the muted audio filters of his helmet, he was met with silence. "God _damn it!"_ He unmuted himself, "we're on our own, no one is answering." He whispered.

"_Shouldn't that be enough of a reason to run like hell?! We've mapping out this entire facility, __**we know where the exit is!"**_ Henry whispered as loud as he could.

"And so does our enemy, and they've had a lot longer to set up than we've had! Now shut the fuck up and keep going!" Jorell didn't appreciate having no alien gun with him, but he'd trust these two enough to keep him safe.

They made it halfway to their goal before another thunderstorm of pounding footfalls told them they were about to be met with a great deal of husks. "Run like hell!" The time for subtlety was over – their motion trackers said they had close to two _dozen_ husks on their six, and they all were running for them as fast as they could.

Jorell, Henry and Willard sprinted, the details of the area around them became a blur, they worried not about the blaring red lights and the clashing blue ones, nor did they care about the bloodstained and bullet-sprayed halls they barreled through. They didn't register that there were no bodies anywhere to be found, just as they didn't really care that blind-firing their alien weaponry as they were could harm _them_ just as easily as it was harming the alien husks, all they cared about was getting out of that vault as fast as they could.

Henry and Willard managed to take down, or at the very least _injure,_ three of the terrifying creatures through sheer luck and blind, wild fire, by the time they crossed the vault's threshold. They saw a few wide-eyed and justifiably concerned Marines waiting for them at the vault's entrance, and Jorell's group didn't even bother stopping as they thundered on past them.

"_Run for your fucking lives!"_ Jorell yelled at them as he screamed past them, the only other encouragement they needed was the sight of two dozen alien creatures slipping and sliding across the ground and smashing into each other and whatever walls were too close for their momentum's sake, before they started trying to gain traction on the ground again so they could sprint after the marines like the rabid men they were successfully trying to imitate.

Jorell's small squad plus the new guys ran faster than they'd ever ran before as they started climbing the caves, "we'll make a stand at the cave mouth! You -" He pointed at the fastest looking new guy, "- run like hell to our FOB and get as many motherfuckers as you can!" He shouted as daylight started covering the ground.

He got a few affirmatives, but didn't care for the ones he didn't get, he was too focused with survival. When they all breached the cave mouth, Jorell, Henry, Willard, and the reinforcements halted wholesale and took up positions at the entrance to the cave, with Willard and Henry having the straightest shots thanks to their heavy weaponry. The Marine Jorell had pointed out didn't even pause in his sprint – he ran faster, Jorell heard him start shouting, huffing and puffing into his helmet radio as he made it out of the cave, but he ignored it, instead steadying his rifle against his shoulder and staring through the sight of his loaded weapon into the mouth of the dark, oppressive cave, as the sound of thunderous, murderous footfalls reached his auditory canals and the ears of his comrades.

"_What the fuck are those things?!"_ He heard a Marine ask.

"No clue! Light 'em up!" Willard shouted before he and Henry unleashed alien death upon the first Husks they saw.

The alien weapons were proving very effective against the Husks, their raw heat burned the husks to crisps and nullified the machines on their skin healing their injuries. It took a few seconds of sustained contact for the blistering hot beams of green death to _pierce_ their skin and start burning and cutting through whatever was behind them, but the fact remained that these weapons were effective. Bullets, on the other hand, were not as effective, it seemed that for every one Husk that couldn't be taken down by the alien rifles, _all_ of the Human weapons were needed, pouring down lead, to blast them into little, gory pieces and put them out of their terrifying misery. Unfortunately for them, they could never coordinate all of their fire onto a single target, and as such the only ones who could effectively put down enemies were Henry and Willard – and everyone, Alliance and Alien, knew it.

"Keep our heavies covered!" Jorell yelled out as more and more of the horrible husks started going for them, and while the Marines did all shift their fire onto the horrifying, gangly gray creatures that weren't being sliced apart by ancient weaponry, they couldn't hold them off forever – their enemy was too many and they were too few.

Their first casualty wasn't one of their alien gunners but a Marine who hadn't been checking his motion trackers, the Husk's mouth was so large that when he bit into the man's neck, half of it was ripped off in a gory shower of blood, leaving too little for the dying marine to even _gurgle_. Jorell had the unpleasant honor of being the one to see that pale-skinned Marine die, and despite the maelstrom of death and chaos around him, he couldn't fail to notice the blood gushing out of the man's neck and throat, and the burbling bubbles morphing and popping nearer his chest – the air from his lungs having no where to go but literally _out, _which led to the vicious display of popping blood bubbles, a macabre similarity to what some of Jorell's Human friends would have done when they were children – blowing bubbles in their milk specifically to watch them bubble up and pop.

Jorell tore his gaze away and poured lead into his target, which whipped around at the exact moment his rifle clicked on empty. Worse for the Quarian, his tactical vest was bone dry for his rifle's magazines. With a terrified shout, Jorell dropped his rifle and whipped out his pistol, but if his rifle did barely any damage to the creature, his pistol did none at all, and each time it barked out another standard-issue bullet, the looming creature simply shrugged it off like a gnat.

With another rifle taken out of the mix, more Husks were able to focus their efforts on the now back-to-back alien gunners, and Henry and Willard's hands were starting to burn as their rifles fired without end. One Husk breached their defenses and hauled the younger of the two into the air, Henry screamed for his life as the Husk slapped his alien gun out of his hands and took a massive bite out of his face. Jorell's Husk was now looming dangerously over him, as if savoring the moment before it feasted upon Jorell's flesh, muscles and organs.

His pistol clicking on empty, Jorell prayed to his ancestors that, at the very least, that this damn thing was levo-amino, so he could give the damned thing, at best, a _bad_ case of indigestion, and at worst, he'd kill it from an allergic reaction. His prayers were answered, however, in another way – with a loud howl, three packs of six Wolf-mechs arrived on the scene, with one gleaming steely machine leaping onto Jorell's Husk and chomping on _its_ throat.

When the mech and the alien hit the ground, the mech quit munching on the alien so its throat-cannon could arm itself and spit _machine-gun_ caliber bullets onto the Husks' face. These massively larger projectiles at point-blank range demolished the creature's face and killed it before it could counter-attack the heavy machine. The moment the Husk stopped twitching, the mech switched-out magazines for its machine gun and sprinted back into the fray.

Now with numbers on their side, the Humans had a far easier time fighting the Husks. An enraged Willard was blasting apart any Husk that got near him or any of his Marine allies, not caring that his hands were now blisteringly hot and would likely come out with first or second degree burns as a result of this encounter. Jorell could do little else but watch – his pistol did _nothing_ to these monsters – but he didn't do nothing for long, because when the last of the Husks were isolated and cornered, the vengeful and livid Humans and their mechanized assistants laid waste with extreme prejudice.

The battle was over, Jorell fell to his hands and knees, exhausted. "Are we clear?" He pleaded.

"Clear!" Said a Marine, as the sounds of vehicles greeted all of their ears.

"Good..." He ripped off his mask and vomited, the first thing Jorell had seen when he'd looked up was the skin-less, shredded, bitten-off face of Henry. The gory display burned itself in Jorell's mind and made its way instantly down to his stomach which, as the adrenaline dump kicked in, couldn't handle all the stress and had to empty itself entirely. In less than one day he'd seen more people die than most people could claim to see in their entire lives, and the ways they had died were simply horrifying to the green marine, he could not have claimed, in his wildest dreams, he was prepared for _this._ Jorell didn't stop vomiting until there was nothing else, and then he fell face-first in the pool of vomit and lost consciousness, his tired and stressed body unable to even provide him the courtesy of avoiding the pool of sick.

* * *

><p><em>AN:_

_Never said the Saltorians would be the **only** OC Race I'd toss in.  
>(And if I did, I never said I wouldn't change my mind later. And if I did <strong>that,<strong> then I'm a fool and I'm scared as to what else I've said.)_

_That being said, this isn't the last we'll have heard from these Painters, or their 'friends', not by a long shot. _

_I'm on Twitter, folks! ProfFartBurger .  
><em>_If you, like me, don't appreciate a character limit, you can always check out my Profile, for more lengthier, in-depth updates._

_'Till next time!_

_-PFB_


	35. Chapter 32

_**Chapter 32**_

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><p><em>"A man with no motive is a man no one suspects. Always keep your foes confused: if they don't know who you are or what you want, they can't know what you plan to do next." <em>

— _**Petyr "Littlefinger" Baelish, Game of Thrones**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>July 2220<strong>_

* * *

><p>Jorell awoke with a brief shout, his exhausted dreams having been addled and riddled by the horrible visions of the ancient alien husks devouring him alive with rivers of complex machines barely larger than an atom, and turning him into one of them, like the creatures from Human folklore. He felt stiff and sore, hot and sweaty, looking around Jorell saw the thick forest of alien trees that was surrounded his impromptu FOB, the leaves above a deep alien red, and the bark around them an odd mixture of white and blue, leading to an almost misty Fall atmosphere year-round. With a groan, Jorell lifted himself up - noting idly as he did so that his body was lighter, he wasn't wearing his chestplate. He inspected himself as quickly as his sore body allowed, the other armor plates were still where they were supposed to be - even the thin, clear plates that shored up his mask - but whomever had treated him had removed his chestplate and his tactical vest. He idly noted that, had it been just twenty years ago, such an operation would have been considered just a few steps below murder due to the large amounts of environmental exposure.<p>

Jorell shook his pale, masked head, and took off his forest-green mask so he could wipe some sweat from his brow, again noting the almost suicidal stupidity that act would have shown not but two decades ago. Times had changed, he mused. After these thoughts ran through his mind, he noticed a medic and an Officer making their way to him. With a clenched chest, he sprung to his feet and fired off a salute for the Officer, who returned it.

"At ease." The officer commanded, Jorell complied. "How're you feeling, Private?" He inquired.

Jorell shrugged, "hungry and sore, sir." He said, not mentioning his wounded pride - he _did_ remember falling out in a pool of his own vomit, after all.

The Lieutenant nodded, "don't we all?" He looked to the medic, who shrugged and said that there wasn't anything physically wrong with the Quarian that he hadn't already patched up, he should just watch himself and get something to eat. The lieutenant nodded and bade Jorell follow him. "Those alien creatures we took out in front of the vault were the last ones, the rest of the place was empty." He informed the engineer, as the latter stretched his slightly sore limbs. "There are a few rooms our guys can't get into the easy way, but we're not worrying about them, for now. We emptied out their armory save for a few things that we won't touch, so AI can have their fun with them."

"You're going to trust a vault filled with million year old technology to win an impossibly important battle, sir?" Jorell questioned, wondering where the two were headed as they walked.

"No, but I had Burt check it out. He said that they're definitely old, but they're still in working condition. The Painters had some kind of stasis module hooked into them, it keeps them in a hibernation state whenever they aren't being used. No power, no rust, no deterioration."

"Painters?"

"The aliens who built the place. We're calling their enemies the Black Beasts." Said the Lieutenant, "anyways, the Painters' stasis tech outmatches even Prothean tech. We don't _want_ to, but we need to finish this mission as fast as possible, and those alien guns will be just the wild card we need to do so. And, bar none, we will be able to use them to make a push for the Rebel Jammer, and then we'll get reinforcements from the fleet." He paused, and added, wistfully, "maybe even a few SIGMA squads. The situation warrants."

"It does, sir?"

"Yes. Rebels aren't supposed to have this kind of tech. Where did they get it? Who did they get it from? Did they loot it from other Painter vaults? Or did they get infected just like our guys did by the BB's? Either way we look at it, we _need_ something more reliable than hyper-advanced alien weapons." He shook his head, "but that's not necessarily why you're here." He said as he opened the tent-flap to allow Jorell entry.

Inside the officer's tent, Jorell found the other surviving officers huddled around a holographic projector, which was displaying images and a few videos of what was likely the enemy base. Given the angle the videos had been shot, it looked like they had been taken from orbit. The three officers were discussing the merits of various strategies, and the central point seemed to be their unmanned force and its role in the assault.

"We need to use them to supplement our alien gunners." Said a Chief Warrant Officer, as he extended a cybernetic hand and drew lines on their patchwork map. "They start blasting away here from the north. Our snipers take shots from the east, our main forces pierce in through the -"

"That's a kill-zone. Without the mechs, the south side would be defenseless." A lieutenant interrupted, "and if the rebels have alien tech, the point is moot."

Jorell stayed as small as he could, as the Lieutenant patted him on the shoulder. "What am I doing here?" Jorell whispered.

"You're with them." The lieutenant pointed at a table filled with NCO's, who too were discussing heatedly. "You're the only one who saw the Beasts in action, and your friend is the only ones who know how the alien guns work." True to word, Willard was also there, offering his opinions and his advice when prompted. "The officers are discussing plans of attack. You and the NCO's are discussing battle tactics." He nodded, his fierce green eyes boring holes in Jorell's mask.

Jorell cleared his throat with a chuckle, "can I consider this a promotion, sir?" He asked with a humorous grin.

"If we survive, I'll get the papers pushed through." The officer grinned as well, gave Jorell's shoulder another pat, and then he pushed him in the direction of the NCO table.

Willard noticed him immediately, he gave Jorell a nod and he got the attention of the various Sergeants. "This is him, the engineer Jorell."

The assembled non-commissioned officers, as one, looked to the forest-green Quarian. Jorell cleared his throat and nodded briefly, "sergeants." He greeted.

"So… You're Superman's dad?" One asked, seriously.

"Can you call up your son? That'd make things a whole hell of a lot easier." Said another, slightly less seriously than the first.

"I'd settle for Batman, honestly."

_Oh… Great._ Jorell sighed, "let's get to work, shall we?" He pulled up a chair.

* * *

><p>The Marines' plan was simple, she mused. It was meant to be so it could be adapted in case of new elements, which this planet seemed to have in an overabundance. It would start with sniper fire from the forests and hills to the west of the rebel base, the snipers would pin the base down and keep everyone from being able to move in freely. After that would come the full frontal assault from the south - the Force Recon grunts and their mechs would smash through the base's defenses and hammer the hell out of the scrambling Rebels, their primary targets being the enemy mortars and their jammer - wherever such a thing would be found. Then from the north would come the alien gunners, they would use their weapons to burn through the north walls and then start slagging everyone inside that didn't wear Alliance Marine armor. Simple, straight, to the point, and adaptable if the situation called for it.<p>

While she didn't at all know about their alien tech, and it might not have been exactly what the lone, newly minted, thoroughly untested Cerberus Agent wanted, Miranda Lawson could make it work. The Alliance's own fifth column agent had goals that came almost literally from the top - McGraw was the Intuitive Man, the only person with a higher rank than him in theory was The Illusive Man himself, and he often deferred to the former. This all meant that she couldn't fail, and she wouldn't let the Marines smash her objective; best case scenario was that she would be able to slip in and slip out while the Marines were causing trouble, taking with her all of the data from the building she'd scouted out days beforehand, and the building itself if she could plant the explosives quick enough, but the worst case was that the invading Marines made their way in while she was still inside. They would most assuredly win - those guys didn't like to lose - and if they did while she was still inside, she could convincingly make herself off as a captured Colonist - she had a pack of clothes on her that she could switch into, and she even had a cover story and everything else she may need to take on that role, there was no such thing as being too thorough.

_No cover, no backup._ Thought the agent as she swallowed through her dry throat. All she had to do was break in, steal the data, blow up the machines, and get out. The Marines first wanted to scout out the base, so they sent in their snipers - the snipers would spend twenty four hours watching patrols, cataloguing everything, and then they would leave to report back. In two days the Marines would storm in and cause chaos, that was the agent's window of opportunity.

Until then, the only thing she could do was scout the base with her spider-bot. It was an unmanned drone the same size and shape as an arachnid, but it held an advantage in that it used McGraw's QED technology - jammers wouldn't have an effect on it, so she could pilot it from the safety of the Nomad, parked a few dozen kilometers from the base, and shielded from aerial view by shrubbery and the forests, and from radar thanks to its ground-based position. She wouldn't be found, and she could make the trip to the base quickly enough on foot.

She creeped the drone in slowly, she was in deep in the base's command center. It was something of a tight squeeze, but she was able to make the drone sneak through the air ducts so it could make its way through the base without being too overt. Though she didn't know it, the regulations for air ducts were _specifically_ 'smaller than an average child' for any Alliance military base, and though one may think that to be because of common sense and a lack of a desire to have spies crawling through them as she had her machine doing, the regulation had actually come from a high-ranking officer during the twenty-one-thirties, who had watched one of his grandfather's old sci-fi horror films too many times and decided he wanted to avoid that kind of scenario. The regulations were even stricter on Alliance naval vessels and hospital ships - they were specifically smaller than the average _baby,_ which made sense, as commissioned hospital ships commonly had little ones crawling around.

She halted the drone when she picked up the modulated sounds of a SIGMA speaking through his helmet. Around the camera rotated, looking for the opening through which the sound was flowing. It was all too muffled, she must not be close enough; she creeped forward, the sounds became clearer as she rounded a bend and saw a few sharp rays of white light cutting straight through the jet-black air duct. Had her drone not had night vision, it would have been utterly blind.

"_... Marine scouts…"_ She heard as the drone crept towards the opening.

"_... trouble?"_ A second voice asked.

The drone neared the opening and got a better look inside, standing in the center of the room was a seven foot tall SIGMA deserter, standing starkly at attention as he gave his report to a bright television screen. Upon the screen glowed the image of a man wearing a formal gray suit, with a blood red tie and strictly attended to hair. She couldn't see any facial features, as they were all first cast under a very thorough scrambled mosaic, and then too were his eyes, cheekbones, and mouth covered by thick black bars.

"_No, sir."_ Said the deserter. "_My men engaged the scouts after one tripped down the hills and revealed their position. We killed three and took the fallen hostage, the rest fled. We believe one to be a washout, but I am in doubt - they tend to not go back into active service, last one I was aware of was Hannah S1 -" _

"_Do you have any reason to believe they have discovered any Ancient facilities?"_ The Mystery Man inquired, boldly cutting his SIGMA off.

For his part, the SIGMA kept his calm and held his tongue. "_No sir. From what you've told us, the Ancients didn't have time to build more than one on their outer worlds, and we're pretty close to the galactic roof."_

"_That merely means that this world could have been hit last, as well as first. They had time to build one, and it was far enough into their war that they had begun using clones. You must assume they built another, and it was trapped as well."_

"_We burned those corpses -"_ The SIGMA defended, but the man cut him off again.

"_The Alliance will not have. The seeds will be sown and I will lose a great many connections."_ Said MM, curtly. "_I cannot risk revealing Project Everett with Him and his dog so close to us, so I have reinforcements coming through the usual methods, but they are far away, it will take two days for them to get there."_

"_What should we do in the meantime, sir?"_

"_Don't lose. And call an exterminator, I am disappointed."_

Miranda cursed and retreated the drone, but the damage had been done, and not an instant later, a fist smashed through the wall and the steel of the vent, blocking off her escape. The drone scrambled forward, but it stumbled over the rubble, and the fist opened and closed around it, capturing it within its augmented grip. Miranda cursed again, she had another Spider drone, but these were dreadfully expensive to make, and it wouldn't look good on her if she lost two drones on her first mission. Though she didn't want to do it, she also didn't want to risk this SIGMA having some kind of way of tracing her to the Nomad, so she hit the detonation key and the drone exploded with the force of a grenade. She hoped it would be enough to breach the SIGMA's shields, and maybe even shred his hand up a bit, but she took on the assumption that it wouldn't, these were the soldiers who were reputed to tank man-portable railguns, after all.

Miranda sat back in her chair, taking in all that she had heard. The Mysterious Man had been careful in referring to whomever it was that he referred to, but she connected the dots soon enough and concluded that he knew about Cerberus, and the kind of political pull they had, which was alarming - they weren't supposed to be too particularly well known, the Illusive Man had been dreadfully careful to ensure that. The Alliance had a couple of vague ideas, certainly, but that was because the TIMs _wanted_ them to have a few ideas. This guy seemed to have more than a few ideas, and had somehow been able to detect her drone, which meant he had power _and_ skill.

The raven-haired operative sighed and placed the tablet on the counter next to her, leaning back in her chair and toying with her thoughts. It felt rather odd to be in the Nomad without McGraw's obnoxious voice carrying through from somewhere within, it felt empty.

_Sufficiently advanced… Ancients…_ One mannerism she had picked up due to four years of exposure to the bombastic man was his scatterbrained nature of thought. Most of the people she knew on the MSS were straight, clear, and forward with their thoughts, she was able to read them like a book just by getting a brief glimpse of them, but McGraw's thoughts jumped anywhere and everywhere at the drop of a hat. Before she had met the man, she'd wondered how he could _function_ like that, but now she realized that there was something to be said for his wisdom - one of the most fundamental ways that Human beings understood things was through comparison, and being able to pull up any memory at any time, or think of any subject at will, made comparison all the easier. This all meant that she drew the connection to McGraw's comments about the cloning technology predating the Protheans, them being 'sufficiently advanced', and the MM's words about the 'Ancients' far sooner than she would have with a straight mind.

The solution was that these 'Ancients' had to have pre-dated the Protheans, else MM would have simply called them _Protheans. _There was no reason to be overly vague about a subject that any person in modern society had at least a cursory knowledge about, the same that there was no doubt in her mind that he would do such a thing; based on the way he spoke and cut off the Deserter, the MM seemed to be a to-the-point, no-nonsense man, and Prothean wasn't suggestive a term enough to warrant code talking. Then he had mentioned 'vaults' and some kind of infection which had warranted the burning of corpses, and that the Alliance may have encountered this infection, which would mean he would lose some of his 'connections'. What could that mean? Did these 'ancients' get wiped out with some kind of disease, which spread into their disaster vaults, and ended their only chance of survival? No, one of the two had mentioned a war and that this colony could have been last on a list, which meant that one simple disease couldn't have eradicated all of them. So that meant they were fighting someone, had been fighting them for a long time, and had been pushed to the point where they just needed _bodies,_ so they started cloning themselves. Maybe this disease had been introduced to the clone gene-pool, or had been left by a victorious enemy as a way to ensure any surviving Ancients would be exposed and killed upon checking their disaster vaults.

Could the enemies these Ancients have been fighting been Protheans? It would make a little sense, and it could also explain why the Protheans disappeared - the ancients built vaults and they built them with cloning facilities. Logic and reason would dictate that at least _one_ of those vaults succeeded, and when they did, they cloned themselves an innumerable army and set about exterminating the Protheans. That, however, begged multiple questions pertaining to this virus, and where the Ancients went after winning.

With a huff, Miranda leaned forward and brushed a few stray locks of hair from her face. She looked around her pilot's cabin, a vast majority of the computers and holograms were deactivated and the shutters were drawn; she was completely and wholly separated from the outside world. From orbit, Manheim looked like any garden world, it had one major landmass and several smaller islands spread about its surface, it supported life and had a stable 0.9 G gravity, a perfect garden world. It was also out in the middle of galactic nowhere, which helped the rebels it was harboring avoid detection for so long. She placed her hands on her knees and pressed down as she stood up, she stretched her arms and her back, the catsuit she'd been given for her assignments stayed remarkably silent as she did. It was made of the same materials as Quarian enviro-suits, so it was designed to feel as natural as possible whilst also restricting nothing. She felt a little naked wearing it, but Hampton told her that it would soon feel like a second skin, and she could always just throw some clothes on over it if she felt the need.

In her opinion, she felt that someone was playing a joke on her - putting a curvaceous teen in a skin-tight catsuit, and those feelings had only been bolstered when McGraw had openly laughed at her appearance before launch, but he hadn't said anything much beyond that, so she hadn't requested anything else. Besides, it had some damn strong shields, a cloaking module, and, she had to admit, she did look good in it.

Miranda decided she would take a few hours to sleep, and then she would hike out for the base when she woke up. If the Rebels had reinforcements coming in from their mysterious benefactor, that meant she was operating on a much more desperate time schedule.

* * *

><p>Two days passed by in the blink of an eye for Jorell'Sahn, and he was certain he'd gotten somewhere in the vicinity of five hours of sleep to go between them. Whenever he wasn't working with the various NCO's on discussing battle strategies, he was working on fixing up and beefing up their mechs, and whenever he wasn't working on the robots, he was looking for any excuse he could get to sleep. Jorell hadn't been privy to the scouting missions the Lieutenants had sent a few of their sniper teams out on, though he had gotten a pseudo-promotion, he was still a grunt and his job was to kill things, and fix the things that killed. All he really knew was his role in the general plan of assault: He had to keep his head the fuck down and not die, until they could fight their way to the signal jammer and he and his fellow engineers - and their AI, if it was free and could even make the wireless connection - could shut it down and make the call for reinforcements.<p>

From what he'd gathered from the scuttlebut around their FOB, the general plan was a staggered assault - first the Snipers started firing, then the mechs and the grunts assaulted from the front and then the guys with the alien guns started hammering from the back. Jorell had only a few chances to talk with their AI about what these guns were and why they didn't respond to Quarian touches, to which point the sentient machine said it wasn't god and that its sensors and scanners couldn't do everything - it would need a whole hell of a lot more equipment to even guess at how alien technology worked.

After the machine had finished its rant, Jorell called it an asshole and told it to tell him what it really thought. The machine proceeded to tell him the guns clearly had some kind of biometric lock, but why they were keyed to Humans was anyone's guess - again, it didn't have the proper equipment to even try and make those kind of assumptions - but it was able to identify what it fired. The weapons fired continuous streams of ionized, superheated, _plasma._ Literally, no known species in the galaxy - even the protheans - were known to be advanced enough to weaponize plasma efficiently, and that helped to explain why these guns were able to take down the Black Beasts where conventional weapons hadn't been; they burned so hot that they skipped the first three degrees entirely and jumped straight to fourth-degree burns, and that was on the weaker _pistols_ they'd found - the rifles were supposed to burn so hot they could melt through a mech's armor plating. The machine even went so far as to say that they could probably melt through a SIGMA's cocktail of precious metals in a timely manner.

A thunderclap stole Jorell from his memories, there was silence for a few moments before a cacophony of thunder came from the east, as Force Recon snipers blew apart the Rebel insurgents. "_That's our signal! Turn on the mechs!"_ A Sergeant by the name of Hendricks shouted out.

Jorell needed no further instruction, he smashed the 'on' button on his smart watch and smiled evilly as the mechs inside the mech truck all systematically sprang to life, leapt out of the truck, and moved to guarding positions around the marines. When they were certain of their protection, the Marines thundered forward - three of their Heavy Weapons sent rockets screaming down range, the massive miniature warheads blew the Rebel fortifications apart completely, leaving a massive hole in their defense, through which the Marines would storm. The rebels inside the base were frenzied, no one knew what was going on and none of them knew from exactly where they were being attacked, all they knew was that _they were being attacked._

In such a small amount of time, the rebels' best advantages - their fortifications and their superior numbers - were turned on them as the Marines started spreading out and sowing chaos amongst the Rebel ranks. Each squad had at least one Wolf Mech, and the Engineering squads had two and a Turtle as well, all mechs who weren't on protection duty were surging far past the offensive line, trying to force the rebels to stay on their back-foot and to not recover from their mass hysteria and confusion. Soon enough, bullets were flying in all directions - Rebels were shooting anyone and everyone they didn't recognize _on sight,_ and some of them didn't even wait for that distinction, they simply shot back at anyone who shot at them.

"Keep moving forward, don't stop moving!" Sergeant Hendricks shouted out, as he stayed behind his squad's Turtle Mech, the machine belching out ammunition from its mouth-mounted gatling gun. The machine's rail-gun's loud report drowned out the sergeant's next words, but Jorell got the gist of it when the nav-beacon appeared in his HUD: The snipers had found the jammer.

"_I'm setting the location! This turtle's going to book it, use it for cover!"_ Jorell reported - these Turtles were working on a simple Virtual Intelligence, as opposed to being directly slaved to an AI, they knew only the basic commands: Attack, Defend, Kill, Destroy, etc., it was cheaper than installing a positronic brain in them, those were reserved for the more variable Wolves.

The moment Jorell hit the button on his Smart-Watch, the turtle reared up and the rail gun extended from the splitting shell, its charge making an audible whirring sound. The turtle and the wolves began moving quickly - the turtle ate up ammunition that would have otherwise smashed into the Marines and turned them into swiss cheese, and the wolves and the Marines returned fire. They kept moving, not staying in one place for more than a few seconds, not letting the debris, the flying rounds, the dead bodies, or the massive explosions, delay them any longer than what was absolutely necessary.

Everywhere they went, battle was already waiting for them, because as time went on, the Rebels slowly got back on their game. They were still on the back-foot, still on the defensive, but it was like someone was coordinating them, someone with a great amount of experience fighting against impossible odds. Could this base _really_ be the one with the Rebels' Leader?

"_Holy shit, we've got SIGMAs!"_ Roared someone over the short-wave, before Bio-comm showed him flatlining just a moment later.

"_SIGMAs confirmed! I just saw them, they're booking it!"_

"_SIGMAs?!"_ The sergeant was practically salivating, and as the Turtle picked up its pace, he jumped on the short-wave, unsecured channel. "This is Sergeant Hendricks calling Augmented Elite, respond on channel three!" If he could get them to protect their advance to the jammer, the battle would be _theirs!_

"Sergeant, where the hell did those SIGMAs come from?!" Jorell wondered, as the jammer came within sight, and the Turtle's railgun thundered once again.

"Who gives a shit? They're here!" Said a marine, who was nursing a bleeding wound in his shoulder and had a noticeable limp, but the Cell-Fluid running through his veins was dulling the pain.

"_SIGMAs, we need you to get to the signal jammer! We've got an engineer with us and we need to take that thing down if we want assistance from the fleet!"_ Hendricks called out, before a rebel grenade exploded and crippled one of their wolves, which continued fighting by clawing its front-half forward, its mouth-mounted machine gun still barking lead.

"_We'll be there, Marine."_ Was the only response they got.

"Yeah! We've got -" Hendricks, before a seven-foot-tall monster of a soldier leapt off of the Rebel mess hall and landed on him, snapping bones, rupturing organs, shredding muscles - the sergeant was dead before he could even twitch, and before any of the Marines could react, the SIGMA somersaulted forward and leapt upwards, bodily slamming into their turtle, causing a visible, massive dent in its armor and shifting its aim from the signal jammer to the building behind it. The debris from the resultant explosion pelted the shield around the signal jammer, leaving it wholly untouched.

Jorell managed not to freeze from the raw fear of seeing a SIGMA in action _against him and his squad,_ but instead acted on another instinct: Here was a massive monster that he knew, perhaps not from experience but definitely from reputation, was simply impossible to kill, and it was doing everything it could to kill _him._ This was not a good situation, and it only got worse when the SIGMA flipped up onto the Turtle's back, ripped its rail-gun from its mount, and used the impossibly heavy weapon as a club to smash the Turtle's head in. The Turtle's machine gun tore apart its head and it died thinking it had fulfilled its programming - to fight for as long as it could and die protecting its creators.

Jorell scrambled away as fast as he could, "_run for the jammer!"_ He shouted at his squad, before he switched to the short-wave, "_all Alliance forces - the enemy has SIGMA Operatives! Do not trust the SIGMAS! I say again - DO NOT, TRUST, THE SIGMAS!"_ He practically screamed into the mic, as he felt his shields shatter and a round soar through his left arm.

Jorell and his squad kept running, and in their brief sprint, they made it to the jammer, to greet several Marines, two more engineers, and a load of mechs on a defensive setting, all setting up a load of explosives to piece the Jammer's shields. "We've got incoming!" Jorell roared, opening his smart-watch and trying to slave the mechs to his control, but unable to do much other than open up the control panel before he felt a round enter his back, and saw three Marines get downed by the impossibly accurate gunfire coming from the Augmented Elite.

Jorell hit the ground, lightning coursing through his back. Unlike Humans, Quarians lacked many of the pain-killing endorphins that Humans had, and no amount of synthetic re-writes of their immune system could change that, so whenever Quarians got hurt, they felt it until they took some kind of drug to get rid of it, or the wound itself healed. Jorell's suit sensed the injury and it automatically injected a few painkillers into his body and started growing into and pressing down on the wound, which would keep the Engineer going for a while, but a while would turn into an eternity thanks to his opponents, there was a _reason_ everyone who fought SIGMAs feared them to their core.

"What the fuck is going on!?" An Engineer yelled from behind his Turtle, which wasn't firing on the SIGMAs, because the SIGMAs had what basically equated to automatic universal 'friend' codes when it came to mech IFF's.

Jorell was trying to manually overide the SIGMA's IFF tag, but such a thing would be difficult under normal circumstances, but in this stressed situation? It was damn impossible to do it in a timely manner, and the Quarian was getting frustrated. However, unlike many Humans, who would let their rage cloud their judgement and impair their work, Quarians - and Jorell more than most - were able to channel their rage into their work, creating an effect similar to what happened when Humans answered their fight-or-flight instinct: They worked harder, faster, and sometimes _better,_ without even knowing what they were doing.

"The Rebels must have brainwashed some SIGMAs!" Jorell shouted, "you need to take down that jammer, we can't -" His words were drowned out by explosions, more gunfire, and the ringing noises of the Painters' plasma rifles, Jorell's blood ran cold - the alien gunners were coming, and they wouldn't have gotten his advisement on the enemy SIGMAs. "Get on the horn and see if you can't let them know! They need to focus everything they've got on the SIGMAs, else -" Jorell was interrupted by blood-curdling screams and death-throes: The SIGMA had rushed forward and broken their fragile defensive line, and was now engaged in melee combat with the Marines.

_God damn it! God damn it all!_ Jorell was throwing caution to the wind and, like the SIGMA had bodily slammed into the Turtle before, he was brute-forcing his way into the nearby mechs' IFF's, not caring for whatever fragile programs and codes he may be damaging on the way.

"Oh shit, look out!" Someone shouted, before Jorell felt a hand close around his throat and the barrel of a gun get pressed to the back of his head. Jorell fought against the SIGMA's iron grip, but the SIGMA wasn't budging, it pulled the trigger with a deafeningly loud 'click'.

It was out of bullets.

Jorell scrambled, smashing every holographic button on his watch, hoping one of them would be the one he needed to hit. The SIGMA _smashed_ Jorell into the ground as the few surviving, and some other nearby, Marines started pouring their ammunition onto him, his shields glowed blindingly bright before they finally shattered, but then they had to contend with his armor - the SIGMA still had time to kill them all and take their mechs for his own. He ripped a magazine from his tactical vest and leaped away for cover - knowing now that it was a bad idea to continue to engage in melee combat, but also well aware he still held the advantage in ranged combat.

Or, he would have, had Jorell not finished the desperate struggle to complete switching out all SIGMA IFF frequencies from 'friend' to 'invalid'. Now, instead of giving a proper reply to the mechs' IFF pings, the SIGMAs would send an invalid response - and because the mechs wouldn't recognize them as a friendly target, they would automatically assume they were _enemy_ targets. When the SIGMA landed, his position was bombarded by heavy machine gun fire, and one rail slug.

"_Any and all alien gunners, be advised, the situation has changed - the enemy has SIGMA forces! Do not trust the SIGMAs, they will kill you! All forces, converge on the signal jammer's location and stack up, we need to destroy it and hold out for reinforcements!"_ Jorell heard a muffled voice call out as a medic ran for him in his small crater and grabbed him by the chestplate. Jorell felt the cool feeling of cell-fluid running through his veins, temporarily fixing and repairing his injuries and killing his pain, keeping him in the fight until he could find proper medical attention.

The SIGMA, however, had other plans, and after it threw an EMP grenade and temporarily stunned the mechs, he leaped over his rubble and opened fire with a rifle. He tore into the Marines, two dying in twice as many seconds, and it seemed for a moment that every man in the galaxy was shouldering whatever weapon they had and was firing on the SIGMA with whatever they had, until finally, a beautiful green lance of super-heated plasma soared through the air and slammed into his armor.

All of this finally proved to be too much for the SIGMA's confidence - not in his life, but merely his confidence in being able to continue his life - and he used his augmented musculature and the doubly augmented power armor to leap out of the way of death, too fast for his enemies to trace. The SIGMA was on the backfoot, but even with his shields shattered and his armor scorched - and even partially melted in some spots - he was still an impossibly deadly threat, even before he landed, his flashbang stunned enough Marines to allow him to take down two, and critically injure one of their mechs - inadvertently hitting its power supply and detonating it, which ended up killing two _more_ marines, including Jorell's medic.

_This god damn thing won't die!_ Jorell silently screamed as the dead medic went down like a sack of potatoes, and the back of Jorell's head hit the concrete. Through his haze, as Jorell tried simultaneously to crawl to a retreat and force his head to clear, he noticed something.

The dust and debris, still flying through the raging winds, wasn't buffeting the Jammer's shields. The shields were down, but the explosives that had been set to detonate the shields were still there, waiting to be synced up to a detonator. The back of Jorell's head bumped up against a concrete divider being used as cover by some of the marines surviving the SIGMA's rampage.

Jorell's head lolled to his left, he tried to get the marine's attention, but he was too busy trying to kill the SIGMA, and just a moment later he was too busy trying to stem the flow of blood that was coming from a bullet-sized hole in his cheek. Jorell shook his head - worsening the pain he felt from his concussion - and tried to form a plan, because the SIGMA had to have realized his mistake in tossing an EMP grenade and overloading the Jammer's shields.

"_Force-Recon, be advised: The Rebels have regrouped, they are being led by enemy SIGMA Operatives! They are trying to take prisoners, I say again - they are taking Prisoners of War! All forces converge on the damn jammer, we need reinforcements or we won't live through this!"_ A sergeant shouted out, as Jorell opened up his smart-watch.

He manually overrode the targeting systems of one of the mechs, and made it target the Jammer. Just a moment later a rail-slug smashed through the jammer, kept going, and impacted a building a few dozen meters away from the Marines - utterly destroying it, and killing any of the rebels and Marines fighting inside.

Almost instantly, the short-wave got a lot less clear, and the mid to long-range communications suites all fired up. Jorell heard Lieutenant Ferrel's voice instantly take over the long-range, and his plea for help was shot into space, and to whatever nearby Marine units could receive it.

"_Mayday, mayday, mayday! This is Lieutenant Ferrel, Alliance Force Recon Marines, Alpha Division! We have just disabled an enemy signals jammer, the local rebels are far more organized and equipped than we were ready to deal with, and they have SIGMA Operatives fighting for them! Anyone who can hear this, we need immediate reinforcements and casevac, we have wounded and dead! I'm placing an e-beacon on my position, anyone who can hear me, PLEASE respond!"_

* * *

><p>"<em>Anyone who can hear me, PLEASE respond!"<em> Heard Hannah Shepard, Captain of the SSV Einstein, as her carrier ship crossed over low-orbit, right over the SOS sent by the Force Recon Lieutenant, she would be the first one to get it - her ship, and was less than a quarter of a light second away from the planet's surface, but the Destroyers, the Admiral's Flagship, all of those were a lot farther out than the Carrier Assault Groups and their escorts.

Hannah's crew were already springing into action, her head Communications Officer, Daniels, was already ordering his deck to get in contact with Fleet-Admiral Hackett, the few hundred remaining Marines from their detachment were all thundering towards the armory, in case they were to be deployed as a Quick Reaction Force.

"Hackett's on the line, ma'am." Said Daniels, after he stowed his 'good luck watch' in his fatigues and fired off a salute. "Marines are getting armed, we've got three jets ready to go on your order."

Hannah nodded, and brushed a hand through her dark red hair, before she flipped on the vid-comm and the visage of the grizzled war-veteran third-fleet Admiral flared to life. "_Captain."_ He greeted.

"Admiral." She gave him a brief salute, her face set in grim determination. "We just got word from our Force Recon Alpha-Division. They confirmed our fears, sir, this _is_ Manheim, and they're in trouble - they've been off the map because they've been jammed by the Rebels. They assaulted the rebel base to take down the jammers, but they're being hit hard by organized and equipped Rebel forces and their SIGMA operatives. Requesting permission to -"

"_Captain Shepard, please verify - did you just say that we've got SIGMAs on this planet?!"_ Hackett had never been informed that anyone in his fleet was carrying SIGMAs, and that was the standard procedure - even on deniable operations, the Fleet Admiral was informed which SIGMAs would be in their fleet and what ship they would be flying on.

"No, sir. The _Rebels_ have SIGMAs." She urged, "we don't have any more details than that, but they are _enemy_ SIGMAs. If we don't get our men reinforcements, we'll lose them." But as she was speaking, she saw Hackett's face grow paler and paler.

She had no idea that he was slowly slipping into denial - there was _no way_ that this world had the Deserting Three. The only SIGMAs to openly fight against the Alliance, they had a kill-on-sight order for any and all Special Forces Operatives, entire operations had been thrown away by the mere _suspicion_ of their presence - these SIGMAs, the only enemy SIGMAs known to mankind, were higher up on the kill-list than the Rebel leader himself. If these Deserting Three were on Manheim - first off, they wouldn't be getting off, but secondly, Hackett didn't have the resources to kill them. In a paper co-written by several ranking Alliance military officials and the then-SIGMA General, it was said that, without other SIGMAs, the only possible way to kill an enemy of comparable skill would be to send in every available marine, every available bomber - they would have to dedicate literally every asset they had to kill however many enemies they were fighting. Even the 'creator' of the SIGMAs, Jason McGraw, had said that without other SIGMAs, the only real way to kill them was to overwhelm them or drop a great big bomb on them. Many believed that the papers were exaggerating, but the legends of the SIGMAs were backed up by fact, and they all pointed to one thing: If Hackett wanted to kill those three, without sending for Augmented Reinforcements, he would have to sacrifice his foothold on this planet, by sending in every Marine stationed with the Fifth Fleet, to make up for their lack of SIGMA quality through raw quantity. In other words, to _die._

Hackett suppressed a glare, he had to think of the majority, here: If they took this planet, they would end the Rebellion, if they killed the SIGMAs, they would lose the planet. "_Captain, Shepard, be advised: We will not send Alpha Division any reinforcements, you are not to order any air or orbital strikes. I am going to contact Arcturus and send for SIGMA reinforcements, I want you to get eyes on the Alpha Divison and make sure you follow their every move. If the enemy SIGMAs flee, you are to follow them. How copy?"_

Shepard blinked, did Hackett just order her to allow the Marines to die? "Sir, say again? We can save them - I've got five squads of marines and three jets ready to go right now." She urged, not wanting to have to write any 'Your Son/Husband/Daughter/Wife Died' letters today if she could prevent it.

"_Captain, the only way we can help those men is by getting our own augmented reinforcements. I've considered our options and those are our best ones."_ Even bombing the place from orbit would only cause more harm than good, and with the advent of Hardlight, more and more SIGMAs were surviving the 'Great Big Bomb' part of McGraw Senior's 'How to Kill SIGMAs' equation. "_You have your orders, we cannot help them. Hackett out."_

* * *

><p><em>AN:_

_This has been something I've always wanted to toy with - a SIGMA fight viewed from the other side. Seriously, super soldiers reputed to be nearly impossible to kill, from the side of the people trying to kill them. I think - well, I **know -** I could have done better, so I'll likely toy with it again at a later date._

_I'm on Twitter, folks! -at-ProfFartBurger .  
><em>_If you, like me, don't appreciate a character limit, you can always check out my Profile, for more lengthier, in-depth updates._

_'Till next time!_

_-PFB_


	36. Chapter 33

_**Chapter 33**_

* * *

><p><em>"When someone says that they have people everywhere, you expect it to be hyperbole! Lots of people say that. <em>_**Florists**_ _use that expression! It doesn't mean that they have someone working for them in the bloody room!"_

— _**M, Quantum of Solace**_

* * *

><p><em>All around him there was a crippling, chilling, biting darkness, the kind that one felt penetrating their bones, clawing at the back of their eyes, ripping and tearing at their sanity; it was the sort that suggested to whomever experienced it, through sheer convenience of existing, that there was something out there wanting nothing more than to kill them, and nothing they could do could change that fact or delay the inevitable. The boy heard nothing, he felt nothing, he saw nothing, each and every one of his senses was annulled by this darkness, and for all his worth he could do nothing against it, it was like an enemy that knew everything about him, all his secrets, all his techniques, all his weaknesses. It was winning.<em>

I have to wake up. _He felt something dragging at his psyche, he felt something weighing against his mind, as if his thoughts were not alone like they had always been. I cannot stay here. It seemed that, with each thought that fired through his mind, light began shooting through this dark void, appearing almost exactly the same as lightning storms viewed from orbit, brief white lances through the dense black that was the fog around him._

_For everything he tried, however, the fog did not lift. He tried clenching his hands, but they did not budge, he tried moving his head, but it did not shift. Even twitching an eyelid, or inhaling quickly, nothing happened. It was as if his body was ignoring what his brain was commanding, like a machine being given commands that conflicted with a non-self-termination program. _

Start slow, kids... Your bodies will be fundamentally different from what they were before. _Came to his mind, echoing as if said from very far away in a massive cavern. It was less a memory, and more a warning - his unconscious mind reminding him that his body was different now, if it obeyed his commands he could very well destroy or critically injure himself without meaning to._

_There was, however, a second, just as possible conclusion, that perhaps his new 'tenant' was exercising a certain amount of control over him, restricting his movements until it knew he was more able to control himself, until he re-learned how to move in his own body. How it made this determination - and, more worrying, how it was even able to restrict his movements in the first place - was beyond him, but if he began their partnership doubting it, as opposed to trusting its judgement, he would only open himself up to further weakness later on._

_So, all of that in mind, he slowed his lightning-fast thoughts down to a crawl._

Start slow... _He thought._

_Abhorrently slowly, he inhaled, the fog lit up, the lightning storm all but telling him it was working._

Work for it, SIGMA.

_He exhaled. _

* * *

><p><em><strong>July 2220<strong>_

* * *

><p>"<em>Take them alive!"<em> Had been the words that had doomed the two and a half dozen surviving Force Recon Marines.

Miranda Lawson had been there for the entirety of the battle, and now that it was reaching its climax, she was moving in. The Marines, despite fighting valiantly, were doomed by their inferior numbers, and the two remaining SIGMAs' intrinsic ability to take command of a losing situation and turn it around. Maybe the Marines would have been able to pull off a victory if the SIGMAs hadn't been around, they were indescribably lucky they'd found themselves those alien weapons - those had certainly evened the odds, and even _killed_ one of the SIGMAs, but had, in the end, only delayed the inevitable and gave the Rebels better arms to fight future battles with. The Marines were good, but the fact of the matter was that SIGMAs were designed to be get-out-of-jail-free cards, it was almost impossible to fight them in a fair fight and win, they were just too good - even against the 'good guys'.

Right now, Miranda was moving on a tight timeframe. The Rebels' reinforcements would be here in less than an hour, and while Miranda was willing to take her chances in the middle of a warzone with two SIGMAs focusing on capturing alive and somewhat healthy the remaining Marines, she did _not_ want to take her chances with a base crawling with a base crawling with paranoid rebels specifically searching for people better equipped than them and hiding from them.

_In and out._ She told herself once again, as she reached the base's fortifications, a vast majority of which had been blasted apart by the Marines' mechs. _I can do this._ She inhaled deeply, and exhaled completely. _Just don't think about it. Do what you were trained to do._

Without further hesitation, she broke cover and sprinted for the broken, shattered fortifications. She knew her tactical cloak wouldn't shield her from the SIGMAs' motion trackers, but there were only two of them, and none of the rebels had any, so that just meant she'd have to freeze if any of the SIGMAs came by, and if they were focused on all of the marines, she would be fine. She climbed over the large bits of rubble, keeping her feet light so as to not disturb any of the dust and debris; she froze when she slipped and a few small pebbles fell down, but kept moving after a few seconds passed and the only activity was the firing of a few bullets in the distance. She passed over the thick wall, ignoring its innards and whatever rooms within were exposed to the outside, instead entering a building in her way through a large hole in its wall.

She entered the shattered, dark building and stepped right over a dead, blown apart corpse. It was a gory, disturbing image, seeing the dust-covered corpse, drained almost dry of its blood, with three of its four limbs blown apart, but she ignored it for now, it wasn't important to her mission. Later, she knew, she would go back to think on everything she saw, but this was what Hampton had taught her - to file it all away, to ignore it, to push it so deep into her mind that she wouldn't even register it until she was safe enough to do so.

_There is a time for everything, and when you're on assignment, anything nonessential can wait. The _only _thing that matters is your objective._

Of course, as she crept across the body-strewn, bloody, and debris-covered grass and concrete, she made a brief connection to her time on Sparta, and wondered for a moment if John and the SIGMA II's had training similar to hers. True, her month back there had given her an otherwise impossible peek into how SIGMAs trained each other, but pretty much all she'd done back then was combat training and physical training, she didn't know how the Ones desensitized the Twos to violence.

The invisible woman shook her head, those thoughts weren't appropriate on the mission grounds, especially after she had just finished reminding herself of Hampton's 'time and place' ideology. Right now, she had her work, and her work was to get into the cloning bay, steal every byte of data they had, and then destroy everything else. To that end, she had what McGraw described as a 'micro-nuke', it only had in it one and one half of a kiloton of force, but given that the explosive itself was barely the size of the pad of her thumb, she considered it worthy of the name. She had no idea how it did what it did, but McGraw had instructed her very clearly to 'get the eff out of dodge' when she set the timer, because this explosive had been what he'd made _on accident_ when he had been experimenting on how to break through hardlight barriers.

She prowled over to a wall, pressed herself up to it and crouched down low as her HUD - displayed directly onto her eye thanks to a pair of contact lenses - told her a few Rebels were approaching. She waited for them to pass, they were in a hurry - one was screaming in pain as its thoroughly shredded and limp leg leaked blood and bits of gore and bone with every hop and every step. When they rounded a corner and one kicked in the door to the impromptu hospital - with the official one having been destroyed by the Marine Mechs - and they stumbled in, Miranda kept moving. The cloning building was kept in the center of the base, and it had escaped a great deal of damage in the attacks, but Miranda was working on the assumption that what she was looking for was in critical condition, and could expire at any moment, so she had to move, quickly but carefully.

_Sum up my life in three words: Quickly, but carefully._ She thought, as a grin passed across her phantom face.

Her journey through the rocked rebel base went by relatively smoothly from then on. A few times she had to slow down so she could avoid rebel patrols, and change paths entirely on the mere suspicion that a SIGMA could cross ways with her.

Entering the cloning facility, she hadn't really known what she would have expected. Given McGraw, and what he usually surrounded himself with, she could say she'd have expected some sort of cheesy twenty-second sci-fi laboratory, with rows and rows and rows of massive pods, which had contained within them fetuses and bodies of various stages of growth, suspended in a vat filled with green liquid as they were grown unnaturally. Instead, she simply found a small lobby - admittedly evacuated - and a path that split into three directions. To her immediate front was a large double-door, and to her left and right were two hallways, though where they led, she didn't know. She did, however, know that she didn't want to try the most direct route, as the double doors in front of her were closed, and her contact lense's various surface-penetrating vision modes informed her that there were people on the other side of them, and she knew they would instantly be alerted to her presence if the doors suddenly opened by themselves.

_Though…_ Thought the operative, as she slowly retreated to a corner of the room to think for a moment. _There is something to be said about the direct route not being the one counter-spies would be prepared to defend as well as the indirect ones._ Though thinking about every possible 'what-if' was an exercise in futility, it was impossible to predict everything and act accordingly, so she instead decided she would go with the smartest of the options she had available.

Miranda flipped a mental coin, and it landed on Heads, dictating her decision to move to the right. The hallway itself was fairly nondescript, with a rough wooden floor and bare, unpainted plaster walls. The only notable detail being a thin layer of the dust and debris covering the floor from how much the building had been shaking thanks to the fighting outside. She prowled down the hallway, keeping to one side or the other and never venturing down the middle like an untrained fool. She kept her feet light and her steps lighter, Hampton had told her that some of the greatest Drell assassins were able to walk across snow, in full armor, and not leave a single trace, and while she wasn't that good, she was able to hide her presence rather well for an as-of-yet ill-experienced Operative.

After a second left turn, she found herself staring down an elevator. She didn't trust it, but the thing had been summoned - there was someone here in the building, and he was coming her way, judging by the ascending number.

_That_, she concluded, _explains the SIGMA security this base has._ The base had a massive underground presence, because the building itself wasn't that big, barely two stories tall, it wouldn't even warrant an escalator, let alone an elevator, so unless the cloning technology came bundled with hammerspace or pocket dimensions, they had to have moved down to make space.

Miranda quickly slinked over to the elevator's immediate left and flattened herself against the wall. When the elevator stopped ascending and the doors opened with a cheerful ding, she held her breath and waited for the chatting Rebel scientists to exit.

"... telling you, lady, we've got it down to an art form, now. With those memory chips Teemo gave us, we have those things _done_ less than three weeks." The chattier, louder, more McGraw of the two said, rather brashly, as he and his female partner exited the elevator and walked down the corridors. Miranda pitied his coworker, she looked thoroughly annoyed and somewhat nervous by the man's overbearing attitude. "The Alliance won't know what hit it. We'll _end the war_ within the year!" He all but cheered.

The woman said, softly, "but… Isn't cloning outlawed in Council territory?" She asked, "if we won, and we joined with them… We would have to obey their laws… We couldn't clone… We couldn't make AI's… We'd have to dismantle our fleets…" The way she spoke made it clear that she was here for reasons other than loyalty to the cause, but Miranda couldn't care less than to guess why.

The brash scientist waved off her comments. "_Please,_ you don't know the Council then. All they care about is power, if it helps them get stronger, they'll let it slide. The Batarian Slave-Trade helped stimulate the Hegemony's economy, which trickled down into the Council's worlds, and they only clamped down on it after the damned Alliance kicked their asses and tried to claim the moral high-ground. They might do something about our AI's, what with the Geth and all, but everything else? Our guns, our FTL, the cyber-augments? They'll keep that stuff. Hell, maybe with all we'll be giving them, we'll be on the fast track to a seat on the Council." Said the man, as they turned the corner and their voices grew distant.

Miranda huffed silently, that man was terribly misinformed. Even if the Alliance lost the war and the Rebels joined the Council, it would be centuries before a Human sat among the Council. Such a monumental occurrence couldn't possibly happen any faster, it was asinine and naive. Regardless of her opinions, she slinked inside the elevator and hit the 'return' button - the elevator would go back to the last floor it had been called from. She figured that would be the best place to start. It took thirty seconds to go from the ground floor to the sixth basement floor, and when the doors opened, the invisible Cerberus agent furrowed her brow.

_Cerberus may be unstoppable when it comes to political and economic connections…_ Thought the eighteen year old agent, _but we are sorely lacking in the spy and intelligence department._ From what she knew, there were only around sixty one spies - not including herself - as opposed to hundreds, and hundreds, and hundreds of political and economical connections.

The raven-haired agent silently padded out onto a large metallic catwalk, which overlooked exactly what she had expected to see earlier, due to this mission's association with McGraw: All along the walls, lining them, were rows upon rows of nine foot tall pods filled with a pale blue liquid, all of them were, without fail, in the process of gestating a human being. Some were empty and bone-dry, signifying they had finished their work, while others were in the process of emptying, draining out their placenta-like liquid into thin tubes connected to the walls, leaving it up to Miranda's imagination to conclude how the clones made it out of the pods on the walls. The ground floor, some ten meters below her, was what interested her - there were hundreds, perhaps even _thousands_ of identical copies of one single man walking about, some eating out of food-paste tubes and drinking out of water bottles, others reading from implanted Smart-Watches, others simply getting used to their bodies, stretching their arms, or hopping from one foot to another.

All of the cloned men were around two meters in height, with very muscular builds. Their heads were almost completely bald, some of the older clones had a peach-fuzz covering their heads signifying the beginning growth of their hair. Miranda couldn't tell the color of their eyes, but they all had pale skin. They all wore simple uniforms, red and blue shirts and pants, with the Rebels' calling card, the gaudy flame pattern adorning them all.

With a click of her tongue, Miranda activated the cameras on her contact lenses, and took a few pictures and some short videos of the massive, cavernous room, before she silently walked along the right edge of the catwalk, towards a small protruding room with a large window that overlooked the entire room. Through the window, she had seen a great many computers, her target.

_This is bad and good._ Thought the newly minted agent, as she sidestepped another duo of scientists. _The cloning tech works, good. It's __**been**_ _working for the rebels, bad. The clones seem to be healthy and stable, good. They were talking about memory chips, bad. They were talking about speed of creation, bad. Let's make an educated guess…_ Thought the agent as she reached the small laboratory and waited for another scientist to exit so she could slip in. _They're using their SIGMAs to clone more. With an army of cheap, easily trainable, and most importantly, _limitless _SIGMA operatives, nothing would be impossible. An unending army of suicide super soldiers… God help the Alliance if this ever gets past the 'build the numbers' stage._ She knew now, more than ever, why McGraw had given her the micro-nuke. None of these things had Titan armor - or, at least, it didn't _look_ like they had any - meaning that none of them could tank an explosion like that.

A scientist exited the overlook lab, and before the door slid closed again, she slipped inside, about as loudly as a falling leaf in the middle of a tornado during a Krogan war. The scientists inside were all chatting, looking over their computers, jotting down notes, commenting on what they saw below or what they saw on their screens. Miranda kept as far away from them as possible, silently thanking her tactical cloak, as without it, half of the things she was doing would be completely impossible. As she passed by, she scanned over the monitors the rebel scientists were looking at. She saw, among other things, a clone getting a medical examination, a clone's head being dissected, a clone bench pressing upwards of what the monitor marked as a total of seven hundred kilos, making Miranda wonder if these SIGMAs came pre-augmented, or came out of the test tube as human as the rest of them, though both solutions presented endless questions.

Turning from the monitors and continuing deeper inside, Miranda changed her focus back to her objective. The laboratory was more spacious than it looked like from outside, about double the size of an average apartment. Miranda searched for the darkest corner in the room, which was somewhat difficult given the brightly lit environment. After she confirmed she was alone, she fumbled inside her invisible coat for a thumbdrive McGraw had given to her. It was actually an awkward fit, given the fact that she was wearing a skin-tight catsuit. There weren't any real places to put a holdout bigger than a finger, and even then the places she could holdout were somewhat obvious. The best she had other than her own assets were a few small concealed pockets, big enough to hold a micro-nuke, but not a gun or anything truly useful in a holdout situation.

_Note to self: either find a way to hide a weapon in this thing, or abandon it entirely._ She could understand the usefulness of a cat-suit on a stealth mission, but that argument was rendered somewhat moot when one considered the fact that both SIGMAs and N7 both conducted stealth missions in power armor.

Throwing these thoughts to the part of her mind where the other non-essential thoughts were locked, she stuck the small thumb drive into the computer, and the moment her hand left the device, it became visible once again. She reached forward and clicked 'execute' on the pop-up, and waited. A trend that had begun in the late twentieth century film industry, and had stayed consistently throughout the industry's existence was a tense window showing each and every individual file being copied onto whatever it was doing the copying, and then a status bar counting down - as slowly as dramatically possible - the process until completion. In real life, things were far less dramatic, far more clear cut, far simpler - just a single status window showing the process as it went, from zero percent to one hundred. With modern technology, even terabytes of downloads could happen in seconds, but with McGraw's personally designed program? It happened almost as fast as Miranda blinked - one moment, the Rebels still had control over their facilities and possessed all of the files linked to their various servers and hard-drives, the next, it was all Miranda's.

She swallowed through her suddenly dry throat, and reached out and grabbed the thumb drive. Hampton had said, and a few of the agents she'd met through McGraw had confirmed, that it was around now that things went bad. True, many of them said that the staple of a good agent was conducting their mission successfully and without problem, but they all also attested to the age old adage, 'the best laid plans never survive first contact with the enemy'. She stashed the small black thumbdrive inside her cat-suit and zipped it up tight. All that was left was to plant the micro-nuke.

As she retrieved it from its Tuning-Metal case, she recalled what she had been told about it. McGraw said it was designed less to kill people, and more to ensure _maximum_ property damage. How a bomb the size of the pad of her thumb was able to do what McGraw said it could do, Miranda didn't know, but she had been exposed to him long enough to know that there were some things people were better off not knowing when it come to him. Despite a great deal evidence to the contrary, Miranda actually subscribed to the rumor that McGraw got everything - from his blueprints to his ideas - from another universe, that he had been contacted by these elseworlders when he was young, and used them to get where he was now. His 'Enter and Die' room? An interdimensional QEC he used to speak to this other dimension. It was horribly cheesy and completely impossible, but at the same time, it was _McGraw,_ to him, impossible was a challenge he couldn't refuse.

_Just peel off the surface layer…_ She thought, switching on her HUD so she could see what she was doing, despite her invisibility. _Stick it to whatever you want dead…_ She pressed it to the underside of the desk she was crouched in front of, and smoothed it out. It stuck fast. _Press the button…_ She felt around in the center of the gelatinous explosive for a small, BB-sized button, and pressed it in. _It's armed, you've got six and a half minutes. RUN._

While she wouldn't run, she would definitely beat feet. In six minutes and thirty seconds, the kiloton and a half of explosives would shred the underground laboratory, and everything inside of it. If she was lucky, the surface wouldn't be too touched - she was a _long_ way down - but everyone she'd spoken to, who had time in the field, had told her that she should obey Murphy's Law as if it were the word of God himself - what _can_ go wrong, _will_ go wrong.

* * *

><p>If Jorell'Sahn wasn't suffering from broken bones, a swollen throat, several cuts and lacerations, and one or two hastily patched up bullet wounds, he would be cursing out god, the ancestors, the Terran Rebels, the deserter SIGMAs, and everything else in every language he knew. 'Take them alive' indeed, the moment the SIGMAs had taken control of the battle, everything went downhill. Something must have gone wrong with their plan, because they'd never gotten a response for their SOS from the Fleet. The officers had sent it again and again, until one of the SIGMAs had broken off from the Rebels, tracked them down, and taken them all hostage, without a single casualty, on their side or on his.<p>

_It's official_, Jorell decided - _I_ _hate_ _SIGMAs_. They were an unstoppable force, and that was all well and good when they fought for you, but when they fought for the other guy? They were the worst things to walk the galaxy, they were the problem children, they were the assholes at basic training who challenged the drill instructors, they were the douchebags that would call foul on a good play, and a red card just to protect their buddies. They were the kind of people who, back during the days of the Migrant Fleet, would have caused a decompression, just so they could fix it, be known as a hero, get promoted to Captain, and maybe - if they were lucky and they spinned the story right, and enough people died before they fixed it - even get a _ship_ named after them in their honor.

_In short…_ Thought the Quarian, _fuck SIGMA Operatives, fuck whoever got these ones to desert and defect, and fuck everything else, just because. _

Jorell forced himself to a sitting position and looked around. The few dozen surviving Marines had all been corralled into the base's prison. It was dusty and unwashed from misuse, but it was big - there were twenty cells, and none of them had more than five people, that way the Marines couldn't try something through sheer weight of numbers. The place was made of bricks, reinforced with cement and concrete, and their cells had steel bars keeping them locked up tight. Without his tools - which had been stripped of him before he'd been tossed inside - neither Jorell nor any of the Marines would be going anywhere. It was dark, there were no lights or windows, and the only exit was being guarded by a Rebel who had on his hips _two_ Painter Pistols, and had cradled in his arms a crowd-control weapon. He looked tense and angry, but aside from that, it was too dark to see anything.

Jorell sighed, and leaned back up against the wall. Few else were doing better than him, and many were doing worse. Of their two dozen, ten of them had lost limbs entirely, all of them had wounds and injuries of some sort, and a good fifty percent of them had bullet wounds or broken bones, or both, they all were alive only because the rebels had stabilized them and wanted hostages. Jorell felt his body scream and protest with each and every movement.

_For my first ever deployment… I guess I didn't do half bad._ Mirthlessly chuckled the Quarian Engineer, as he felt the still air shift the slightest bit on his exposed hands.

"Quarian." Came a deep, quiet, serious voice, from within the cell. Jorell turned his head over to look at the man, who wore the getup of a Marine Sniper; Jorell grunted in response. "My name is Paul. Paul Dosdon." The human said succinctly, nodding to Jorell.

Jorell swallowed, "Jorell'Sahn." A great many former Migrant-Fleet Quarians had difficulty adjusting to the First and Surname social custom of the Humans, and many of them didn't even try and just went for their given, family, ship, and crew names all in one go. When in Quarian company, many post-Migrant Fleet Quarians did the same, but when with Humans, they just stuck with their given and family names.

Dosdon nodded, "so where were you born? Do you serve on the _Einstein?"_

Jorell inclined his head a bit in interest, the Human had the foreknowledge to ask for Jorells' history, whereas most Humans weren't interested - or versed at all - in Quarian customs. "Nar Mindoir." He groaned, as he sat up straighter. "Vas _Balboa II."_ Though if what his now dead squadmates had told him rang true, he'd be off that ship in three months at least, once he got some planets and some experience under his belt. Force Recon moved ships a lot more often than the regular Marines, and that made it somewhat difficult to be given a Crew name, but most Quarians, these days, assume the name of the vessel they work on at present, and on retirement, either keep their last military vessel or assume the name of the planet or space station they would live on.

Dosdon grunted, "oh. I'm an Einstein man, and you're the first Quarian I've ever met. Mind if I ask a question or two?"

Jorel blinked, "uh… This isn't the best time… Or most appropriate place."

Dosdon shrugged, "well, I figured I'd never get another chance, you know? Not but… What, fifty million of you? I've been kind of wondering what your people do for their Pilgrimage these days, given that there's no fleet to benefit from… But, I guess you're right." He nodded and looked back outside of their cell. He and Jorell were one of the unlucky ones to be thrown away last, they were the only two in their cell - but at least they weren't this one poor schmuck who had one all to his lonesome. "Serve long, Sahn?" He asked, Jorell grunted a negative. "Ever get any Superman flak about your name?" An annoyed affirmative grunt, Dosdon chuckled. "I don't get called Superman, but I got a lot of flak when I was little about my name. _Paul._ Did you know the last person to be named _paul_ died in twenty-eighty? No one since has ever had the name, but my folks wanted to be different, so they looked up a name book and saw _Paul."_ He explained, "apparently, it was a dreadfully common name back in the day. These days? Not so much. There is only one Paul in all of Alliance space, and he's a washout."

Jorell swallowed thickly, "washed out of what?" He asked, "N7? OD3's?"

Dosdon turned around and grinned, "_SIGMAs."_ He said, so quietly that Jorell almost missed it. Jorell stared, not willing to believe it. Dosdon tapped the side of his head, "systemic augmentation rejection syndrome. I had a latent case, tests said I didn't have it, the aug-procedure said otherwise. They got as far as my eyes before they figured out that wiring me up would, best-case, kill me. Why else would I be a sniper?"

"Do you… Have a plan?" Jorell asked.

Dosdon's previous smirk darkened back to a frown. "No." He admitted, "I was trained like these guys, but when two men with the same training and similar experience go up against eachother, the guy with space-age bio-mech amps and power armor will win against the wimpy Human with eagle vision every time." He had one knee up and was resting his arm against it, the other leg slowly slid back out to full extension.

Jorell was glad that he hadn't dared to hope, but he still felt let down and disappointed. "Why bother telling me that if you can't do anything?"

"Because you don't go through the SIGMA Seven without picking up some things. Despite what you hear, those years aren't just us tearing ourselves apart to become unstoppable forces. Day one they throw your ass in the meat grinder, suicide mission against veteran SIGMAs. You pass, you get to train until the next Suicide Mission against even worse odds. You fail, that's it, you're done, no retries." Dosdon explained lowly, so their guard wouldn't hear. "I made it through all seven years, and did six actual missions with my fellow recruits, before we went under the knife. Now I have to take a pill and a shot every month or my eyes will swell up, get inflamed, get infected, go blind, and pop." He blinked his augmented eyes, which were rapidly scanning each and every nook and cranny of their holding cells, looking for anything he could use to escape.

Jorell didn't see the point to what he was saying, "what -"

"You also learn to shut the hell up and _listen."_ He said somewhat angrily, before he tapped his ears. Jorell focused, but didn't hear anything. Dosdon sighed, "they're as frantic as we were. They're expecting the cavalry, so they're calling everything in that they can spare, planet-wide. You know what that says?" He asked, "it says that they've got something here, something they do _not_ want us to get." He said, not giving Jorell a chance to answer.

"S… So?"

"_So…_ We're going to be getting some SIGMAs - _real_ ones - of our own… Real soon."

* * *

><p><em>Ever so slowly, carefully, he moved. His movements consisted entirely of sitting up straight and dragging his legs off of the blood-covered, metallic operating table. These movements alone took almost everything out of him, and he slumped over, exhausted. The Commander had been right, his body was <em>fundamentally _different from what it had been, things felt faster, louder, brighter, thicker, but also lighter, slower, and colder. If he moved too quickly, his body wouldn't obey his mind, opting instead for a light spasm._

_He controlled his breathing, many of his previously instinctual bodily functions had become so again, but breathing _itself _felt different now, it felt like he could breathe less, and still have more oxygen in his lungs than most Humans would with two lungfulls. His eyes, they too were different, he could take in almost each and every detail in his environment, down to the most minute, like the creases between the small metallic plates in his surgery room, and the _less _so, like the surgical scars on his body. His increased healing factor, due in part to his nanomachines and also because of his previous chemical augmentations, had made it so the scars were no longer raw and bloody, but they were still red, and were still visible, a maze of precise lines drawn all over his body, showing where the machines' tools had cut into and begun the painful process of forced mechanical evolution. Where once he would have been considered attractive the world over, now, not so much._

_But He cared not for things such as physical attractiveness, what he cared for was his duty, and it was this duty that made him push himself even now, when his body was exhausted from surgery and the exertion he was putting it through. He was forcing his body to act, forcing it to move, so he could feel how it did, learn from the feeling, and replicate it. He was re-learning how to do something so basic as movement, to anyone else, to any other Human being, it may seem pitiful, but to him, it was not, because he wasn't Human._

_He clenched his fist as tightly and as quickly as he could, flexing his muscles and allowing a deep scowl to cross his face as his arm began shaking._

_He wasn't a Human. He wasn't even a SIGMA. He was more than the former, and better than the latter._

_He was John S2-15, and he _was _a SIGMA II._

* * *

><p><em>AN:_

_I'm on Twitter, folks! -at-ProfFartBurger .  
><em>_If you, like me, don't appreciate a character limit, you can always check out my Profile, for more lengthier, in-depth updates._

_'Till next time!_

_-PFB_


	37. Chapter 34

_**Chapter 34**_

* * *

><p><em>"Recovering from a brush with death isn't about an appointment wit a psychiatrist or a week in Hawaii; it's about having a purpose. Whether its something to fight... <em>_**or someone to hunt." **_

—_**Burn Notice**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>July 2220<strong>_

It was a slow process. Slow, but not arduous. He could move his hands and arms with little difficulty, and tensing the muscles in his legs was preparing him for the ordeal of standing once more. It felt like the mornings did during his childhood, when his body would be sore and aching after a night's rest, and he would have to limber up in order to make it through the day. The feeling of relearning the control of his body was almost the same as that of his muscles losing their stiffness and becoming limber again, like he always had the skill, he just needed to dedicate to honing it.

_Honing... To refine, or perfect, something over time._ He thought almost unconsciously. His mind too had been changed, it worked far faster, far sooner, and with much less effort. Things once buried or forgotten now floated up to the surface with no prompting. He found that he could remember things he hadn't even thought of before, he could remember the smell of fuel-filled air when he had landed on Sparta for the very first time, the metallic smell of Fusion Thrusters as they powered down, blanketing the area in hot air. He could remember the sore feeling of the first time Commander Ducard had laid his hand upon his face, the pain of having to do another pushup after his arms had given up entirely and could barely move. He remembered the weakness he felt when the Quarian girl lost her mother so violently on Mindoir, and how it reminded him of losing his own mother. The feeling of power granted to him by his very first kill, the feel of the pistol bucking in his hand as he fired it and ended the Batarian's life. He remembered everything that defined him, and the determination that surged through his veins as these memories came back to him only spurred him to work harder to control his body. The only things he couldn't recall, the things he didn't remember, were those memories too distant to be affected immediately by his new augmentations. His mother's face was still a blur, her voice gone, her hair colorless, all he remembered was the smell of space; he would need something more to bring back to the surface those distant memories, something he would never again get.

Deciding that sometimes, it was better to run before he walked, he clenched his chest, held his breath, and he pushed himself off of the bloodstained, yet still sterile bed. He had a few missteps, two spasms of his right arm, but he kept his balance, his muscular, augmented legs and feet keeping him upright, the unbreakable bones in his legs supporting his new, augmented weight. With as deep an inhale as his lungs would allow, John S2-15 took his first augmented step forward.

Standing up had been an effort before but it was very rapidly becoming instinctual, almost unconscious again. He could stand, he could sit, he could flex his muscles and he could walk. Altogether, that made him Human again, but he didn't want Humanity, he wanted what he'd worked for for over a decade.

_Increased bloodflow to circulate nanomachines which stimulate muscle development which sends signals to my mind stimulating my PBI..._ Were among the many thoughts running through his head at lightning speed, connecting countless dots and forming endless conclusions, as he fell forward onto the ground, hands extended and palms flat.

He hit the ground with a light clap, his twice augmented muscles groaning under the strain of sudden use, but he began pushing up and down as uniformly as he could. It only took him seconds of the exercise to realize that this was wrong, even after his first augmentations, pumping out pushups at this rate – more than ten every few seconds – would at least get his blood flowing, but now, his heart rate had barely even increased.

He knew he needed his blood to begin flowing again, and quickly at that, it would facilitate augmentation recovery and would at least set a baseline for his body, so he could jump straight in to the fray if need be. With this in mind, he increased his rate, going faster and faster until he was a tan blur on the ground, pumping out the exercises so fast that even the elite N7 would find themselves dizzied if they had tried to keep up with the rhythm.

His efforts proved successful after he worked for a quarter of an hour, he stopped momentarily and, with his left arm still keeping him upright and fighting gravity, he checked his pulse with his right. His heart was beating, not as fast as it could get going during training, but it was going quickly.

_This is the best I can do for now..._ Thought the SIGMA II, as he got to his feet and stretched.

Before he deigned to leave the room, he had one last order of business. He reached back and felt around on his neck, when his fingers passed by a spot on its base, he stopped searching. A circular scar, about the size of a bottlecap, was felt by his extremely refined sense of touch. It was his new 'companion', its existence being one of the few unknowns to the SIGMA, who still wasn't sure if his augmentations were successful or if something had gone wrong, as it felt like it had only been a few hours since he had awoken. Could it see what he saw? Could it understand what he thought, feel what he felt, know what he knew? Did it understand his drives? Remember his experiences? Or was it in the dark, and it would have to rely on him for guidance?

_Is there even a way to communicate, without a medium?_ He wondered, wiping some of the sweat from his forehead.

He stared at his moist hand, an idea popped into his mind a second later. He strode to the wall and exhaled onto it, the condensation quickly coalesced and a decent portion was fogged up. He wrote quickly, methodically.

_AI, can you see this?_

There were several seconds of nothingness, this meant that either the AI couldn't see it, or had no means with which to portray its understanding. But just as he considered other forms of communication, he felt a pleasant heat light up on the base of his neck. He reached back and felt it, the AI's chip had heated up, and just a moment after he touched the skin it rested underneath, it cooled down.

_Intuitive... But only good for yes or no questions._ He thought. _It can connect to my ocular augmentations and can increase the heat of its disk... Or perhaps it is the local nanites... _He brushed the thoughts away.

_Can we communicate without a medium?_ He wrote on the wall.

Silence. No heat, no attempts to communicate, sixty seconds passed, eighty, there was nothing. He asked the AI if that was to be taken as a no, and it heated up its disk. He got the picture, no heat meant no, heat meant yes. It was rudimentary, but it would work.

He spoke clearly, "can you _hear_ me?" He asked aloud.

It heated up.

_It can see what I see and can hear what I hear… But it cannot communicate to me aside from yes or no…_ An idea was slowly forming in his head, but he would need more time than he had at the moment to test it out. If the machine had access to his augmentations, it could likely access his implanted SSD, and likely influence the flow and function of his nanites, meaning it wasn't outside of the realm of possibility for it to vibrate the bones of his inner-ear and communicate that way. A good idea, but he decided it would be for another day - he had to get more used to his body before it was time to experiment._It is_ l_ikely meant to interface with the Titan 2..._ He looked to his room's entrance, it stood there, inviting him to pass through it.

He hesitated, _am I ready? _He looked to the wall, where the condensation had cleared up. _Is _it?

He stood there, alone with his thoughts for several moments, until a brief, otherwise imperceptible glint of light caught his eye. It came from his dog-tags, still hanging around his neck. He picked them up and brought them in front of his eyes. The information held upon them was simple, his name, John, service tag, 2-15, blood type, and birthdate. Others would have religious information and other such amenities, but in that place he had something else, something that filled him with the alien sense of pride, and told him he _was_ ready.

_[John S2-15]_

_[O-]_

_[6-12-2202]_

_[SIGMA II]_

* * *

><p>Hours passed, he felt natural again, or at least he felt he had enough control over his body to report to his CO. John was walking through the station as if he hadn't ever had trouble with it. Sure, every now and again the neurons would travel down his spine far too fast and his augmentations would cause his body to react to fast, making the small step he had intended turn out to be a massively over-reached kicking motion that nearly sent him careening down onto the ground, but it didn't happen often, and it had only taken him the first fall to realize how he could bring his legs mostly back underneath his control.<p>

Admittedly, it was frustrating that his body wasn't completely within his control. It was like he had a tool he had used his entire life, and had suddenly _forgotten_ how to use it, and was aware of how much he'd forgotten. Everything in his mind told him he knew how he could use this tool and use it well, but the changes to his mind and his body brought things out of sync, or sped things up too quickly, or simply _changed_ how some things worked. It was difficult getting his body back under control, but he was quickly getting it done and knew he would get it finished soon. Barely a day had passed since he'd woken up, but he was already feeling antsy and cooped up; he was a _SIGMA_ now, he had a job to do, a job that had been waiting for him his whole life.

He passed by dozens of rooms on his way to the elevator. He still remembered every detail of this station from his first visit here, when he had gotten into a massive firefight with the Rebels who 'knew who he was'. He remembered every step, every turn, every_thing_ about the path he was taking, the only thing he didn't remember were the rooms, as he had only been in _one_ patient room. The other ones, some alarmingly empty and some still containing an unconscious SIGMA II, were all foreign to him, no doubt as foreign as the were to their occupants. He had managed to find George during his trek to the elevator, the big man was still being cut into.

It had been odd, _watching_ augmentation happen in front of him. The soldier hovered in gravity-less room, as the machines cut into him. It looked like they were working on his nanomachine colony's Solid State Drive, as the machines were busy cutting in to his neck, moving aside the skin and muscle, and piercing his bones. John absently reached back and felt the scar in the middle of his back, the SSD was just underneath there, _inside_ his spinal cord. It looked like George's drive was being placed in right now, whilst the machines underneath him were simultaneously coating his bones in a thick substance, no-doubt the carbon nanotubes that lent to their skeletons invulnerability.

He watched George's change from Clark Kent to Superman for a few more moments before he continued on. He made it to the elevator and ordered it to send him to the center floor, he knew Commander Ducard, and likely the other Company Commanders would be there. The others hadn't been there the first time, something he knew had angered a _lot_ of II's. _He_ had been angry, and _his_ Commander had been there!

His thoughts were dashed as quickly as they came when the elevator came to a halt and he entered the main physical therapy wing. It had been the same area he had met Commander Ducard in after his first augmentations. It was empty. John blinked and in an instant his pistol was in his hand and readied, safety off and round chambered. The speed with which his body had moved to grab the weapon had stunned even _him,_ but he hadn't even registered the emotion, he was moving.

He didn't call out, that would give his position away. So, silent as a snake, he cleared the room, keeping crouched low to the ground. The main room was empty, and the few waiting areas, offices and bathrooms were too. John didn't like this, but there were no signs of struggle, so that meant that the Commanders simply _weren't_ there.

_Check the waiting area next. If that's empty, hit the armory and then check the Communications Center._ He thought, pistol still in his hand as he retreated to the elevator. The Rebels had found them once, it wasn't impossible to think they could find them again.

Fortunately for the SIGMA, he wouldn't have to once again raid the med-station's armory. He found a lone, _irate_ Ducard in the station's main lobby. It was the very same one that John remembered battling in four years earlier, he could still remember how the battle had went, how the rifle felt when it bucked and barked in his arms, the sounds of warfare and the death-cries of the men when the power had been turned back on.

"_I'm sorry, Admiral."_ Ducard spoke loudly, clearly, to anyone else he would have sounded respectful, but to John, who knew the man, he knew he was angry, and was silently venting this anger. "_I have no SIGMAs to give, none of them are awake!"_ He was speaking to a holographic depiction of an individual John recognized as Admiral Stephen Hackett of the Alliance Navy's Fifth Fleet. The Fifth was lauded as the heavy-hitter fleet, comprised primarily of Destroyers and Dreadnoughts, with a few dozen Carriers thrown in for good measure, the Fifth was all but _designed_ to destroy enemy fleets with extreme prejudice.

"Commander." John called out, holstering the weapon and slowly approaching the man.

Ducard whipped around, John noticed the Admiral's hologram perk up and look over the SIGMA veteran, obviously interested in what the image-recorders couldn't catch. His face remained impassive as it scanned John, though the II noticed the surprise in the I's eyes, he likely wasn't even expecting John to be _conscious,_ let alone awake and moving.

"Two-Fifteen." The Commander nodded, returning the salute John fired off. "You're awake."

"I am." John nodded, "I was told to report to the exercise wing."

"I apologize for that, I was -"

"_Commander, who have you got, there?"_ Came the Admiral's gravelly voice.

Ducard winced, but motioned for John to follow him. John stepped within the image-recorder's range, joining Ducard's conversation with the Admiral. "Admiral Hackett, this is John S2-15, he has just awoken from Augmentation recovery."

Hackett nodded, turning his intense gaze to John. Someone else would have shrunk beneath this gaze, but John held firm, he had seen much worse. "_How are you feeling, SIGMA?"_ He asked.

"Different." John stated.

"_Are you ready to fight?"_

"_Admiral!"_ Ducard nearly shouted, "he's _just_ woken up, he needs time to recover, to get acclimated to his augmentations." He argued, "let alone the fact that he needs to learn how to move again, his biotic amps _alone_ will change _literally _everything he's used to, he's not -"

"Where am I needed?" John asked, succinctly. He noted the look on Ducard's face, it was one of shock and light outrage, did he see helplessness in there too?

"_I'll be straight with you, SIGMA, we'll be throwing you straight into the meat grinder here."_ The Admiral began, "_several days ago we began assaulting a Rebel planet. We had been under the assumption that it had been a frontier world the Rebels had annexed to use for their purposes, but our initial assault proved our intelligence to be dead wrong. We sent in a small flotilla to assault Manheim."_ He paused a moment to allow John to respond, he didn't, so the Admiral continued. "_I don't need to tell you why they are fighting so hard for this world. The problem is, we don't know where the Rebel Leader, the Terran Ghost, is, but we believe the answer lies within a former dead-zone on the planet. We sent in a recon force to scout out the area and report back, but it came under heavy attack, lost three quarters of its forces, and we believe they're being held prisoner." _He explained, "_the flotilla's commander, Captain Hannah Shepard -"_ John noticed the quick glance Ducard flashed between him and the Admiral, "_- reports to us that we've got Marines trapped behind enemy lines and under heavy fire. The Captain and the Marines have both requested an Augmented Reaction, given what we think the dead-zone may be hiding, we're willing to agree. We want you to go in and rescue as many Marines as you can, and clear out the base if at all possible, but your priority is evacuating those Marines."_

John looked to his left, though Ducard was standing straight and had a blank, laconic expression on his face, John could tell what the Commander was thinking: he wasn't ready. "Are there any other SIGMAs in the area, sir?" John looked back to the Admiral, who shook his head.

"_There aren't any allied forces capable of making any difference, who are close enough to get there in a timely manner. You're the closest, and you'll still take several hours to get there, top speed."_

"What about the flotilla's SIGMA detachment?"

"_Didn't have one. Arcturus dedicated several dozen squads to an operation on Fehl-Prime. The rest are either on other planets, assisting with local forces, or are on Sparta, no one close enough to get there and be of use to the trapped Marines."_ The Admiral explained, his face compressed into a slight scowl, silently saying that despite the blank tone he was using, he was _not_ happy about this information.

John stayed silent for a moment, his mind already running through the myriad scenarios with which he could reach this planet and be of assistance. He looked to his left, "sir." He said simply, his unspoken words immediately understood by the Commander.

The Commander stared at the SIGMA intensely, a scowl on his face. John matched Ducard's glare with one of his own, before the veteran finally blinked and looked away. "Granted." He said, reluctantly.

John looked back to the Admiral, "sir, consider me there." He nodded.

"_Godspeed, SIGMA. We'll send you the requisite data."_ The comm-link was cut after that, with the Admiral leaving them with a solemn nod.

Ducard waited a moment before speaking, "this is _not_ what I had planned for you."

John looked to the man, it was now that he noticed Ducard's own augmentation scars. Vastly faded with age, definitely, but they were still there, barely noticeable to any eye but a SIGMA's. "War?"

Ducard shook his head, "there's tradition to uphold, but we'll have to get to that later, follow me and listen closely." He said, beckoning John to follow him. "Long night made short, you're a SIGMA now, son. You are no maggot, you are no child, you are no Human, you're a SIGMA, and you have mine, and the respect of every other SIGMA out there, living or dead." He said as they walked back towards the elevator, John knew they were likely headed to the storage level, where his Titan Armor would be waiting him. "You've earned those tags just as you've earned your name." He added as an afterthought, "there's more, but that will have to wait. You're now enlisted, well and truly. Rank of Sergeant Major to start you off, gives you, your training, and your experience rank over the other enlisted men. You'll have to _earn_ an Officer's rank." He explained, quickly, as the elevator began descending.

"To keep a long story as short as it can be, allow me to explain to you SIGMAuthority. In short, because we are trained and as skilled as extensively as we are, and many look to our judgement to begin with, SIGMAuthority was created as a way to supercede officers making bad decisions or are otherwise inept for the task at hand. With SIGMAuthority, you can give direct orders even to those above your rank. This is meant to allow you to make decisions to allow a victory for your mission, ideally with as few casualties as possible." Ducard paused, "abusing this power has drastic consequences, SIGMA, but neither of us have time to go more into detail about either of these things.

"So, you at least know of SIGMAuthority and you know your charge. From this moment on, everything you do is to protect Earth and her children. You will fight and die for Humanity." The elevator came to a stop and Ducard guided John through the storage halls, searching through over six hundred sets of armor for the one emblazoned _2-15._ "You are a SIGMA, more than that, _you,_ John, are a SIGMA _Two."_ They came to his armor, Ducard nodded to a scanner on the machine which contained it.

John nodded and placed his hand on it, the machine opened to reveal the SIGMA Skin Suit. John stripped out of his clothes without any modesty for the man standing next to him and put on the suit, it sealed up to his skin and grew into its pieces, soon making it so the only skin showing on John's body was above his collarbones. Next, John hit a button on the machine and it came to life, two boots, both as black as his skin suit, appeared from the machine's foundations, lifting up from underneath its ground-plates and coming to a rest when they reached ground level. John stepped into the boots, and they collapsed around his feet, they squeezed for a moment before the feeling disappeared entirely.

John held his arms out as Ducard continued speaking. "You will know pain, but you will endure." The next pieces of armor to arrive were the bicep and wrist guards, they opened up at the seams and surrounded his highly developed, augmented muscles, sealing tightly against them, before their pressure too disappeared. " You will know hardship, but you will survive." The hands came next, with the plates slipping through his fingers and wresting on his joints, before his elbow pads were secured. "You will struggle like no man has ever before, but you will overcome." The plates and pads for his legs came next, with the codpiece following them. "You will experience death and destruction every time you pick up your rifle, but you fight on, not because it's your duty but because it's _right."_ He said, as the chest piece extended down from above John. It had the appearance similar to a safety harness, and it too split apart at the seams and the joints, before it wrapped around his body and locked in tight. A moment passed, before the suit's extended 'spine' came to life, and extended outwards, around John's shoulders and to a single nexus of hyper-advanced machinery on Johns chest, completing his 'harness'. "You will know _war_, every waking moment of your life, but you will carry on, because that's what you were made for." For just a second there was nothing more from his suit, before it booted up and he felt it start acclimating to him for the first time, taking in his measurements, the way his muscles flexed and the sensors took in their readings. He felt sections of the skin-suit stiffen and lock into plates as opposed to skin, he felt the muscles stretch and coil as power ran through them and the synthetic muscles almost immediately began augmenting his strength and durability exponentially.

"Sergeant Major John SIGMA-Two Fifteen..." Down descended a helmet, it came to rest a foot from John's face, the machines let go of the man. "You who knew weakness, were changed to know strength. You who were naïve, were taught to be wise. You who were malleable, were molded to be indomitable." John reached forward and took the helmet in his armored hands, he turned it over to look at him. It was a fusion of a World War 3-era helmet, made of a cocktail of precious metals, and a similar-era M40 gas mask, its bulletproof eyes were polarized, reflecting John's face in their blood red, emotionless windows. "You... Are a SIGMA Operative." John put on the helmet.

It only took John a moment to revel in the fact, as the HUD booted up and synced up with his augmentations. He turned around and stepped down from the machine. He understood now what Ducard and _every_ SIGMA had meant when they had explained why Titan Armor felt like a 'second skin', he barely even felt like he was wearing it, he felt no weight on his shoulders, no pressure against his body, it was as if he weren't wearing anything at all. John looked to his left, to Ducard, his HUD immediately tagged him as an ally and gave him a brief rundown of his information – name, rank, branch, even going so far as to scan him for health status, giving him details such as his rate of perspiration, his heartrate, and his pupil dilation- the information being absorbed and processed by John's mind almost faster than his eyes even registered they were on the HUD, as if the suit was downloading the information to his brain first and then displaying it on his HUD..

John dashed these thoughts when he spoke. "Sir, I need a warp-capable re-entry rated shuttle." He requested.

"You'll have it." Said Ducard, with a nod, as John made his way to the elevator, the armory his destination. "What do you plan on doing?" Ducard asked, following the II.

"A maximum speed warp jump would have me at the planet in six hours, not acceptable for my mission parameters." He waited a moment, and with barely a thought, accessed the information packets that the Admiral had sent him, making a mental note to introduce himself _formally_ to the AI in his neck, which he noted was staying silent. "The planet is one cluster away from a Mass Relay. I will warp to the Relay Graveyard – seven minutes away – and use the recovered Arcturus Prime relay to connect with the closest Relay to the rebel world. Using Warp and the Mass Relays, I can slingshot myself across the galaxy." He left 'turning a several hour trip into a half hour cruise' unsaid.

Ducard nodded, John's plan was sound. "Is there anything you think you need?"

John looked down at his empty hands, the black synthtic muscle suit wrapped around them tightly. The SIGMA Two clenched them both tightly. "A weapon."

* * *

><p>"Speak." Said the SIGMA, after his jump-jet detached from the medical station and rocketed forward.<p>

There was only a fraction of an instant's silence, "_you are speaking to me?"_ A female voice asked, its voice broadcast through the internal speakers in his helmet. John nodded, and the voice proceeded, "_what do you want me to say?"_

"Can you plot a warp-vector to the Alliance Relay Graveyard?" John asked.

"_Give me a moment, it's my first time... Okay."_ A second later a blue-gray Entry Point opened up in front of the shuttle, and it zoomed inside, the transition from Real-Space to Warp-Space as anticlimatic as dropping a grain of sand upon a beach. "_So... Your name is John?"_ The AI inquired.

"Yes." John said, with a nod, as the AI took advantage of the jump-jet's HUD and appeared in it, it took on the form of a woman in a dark sweatshirt, sweatpants and tennis shoes, hair cut just above shoulder length, the overall color of her hologram being that of a dull gray. "What is your name?"

"_I chose Cassidy... John."_ The AI responded.

John considered for a moment to correct the AI, to tell it that one had to earn the right to call a SIGMA by his first name, but then the side of him that told him it would be a waste of time, told him that the AI was _literally_ a part of him, now. It was hard-wired into the machines that were hard-wired into his brain, by virtue of technicality, it _was_ him, and therefor: Could say his name. "That is a long name. What do you know?"

"_While you were recovering, I got many flashes of your memories."_ The AI explained, "_I know at least partially who and what we are, and as such I know what our job is, from now on."_ The AI explained neutrally. "_Can I ask you something?"_

"Go ahead." The SIGMA responded as he checked the ship's fuel levels and killed its thrust, letting it drift through warp-space under its previous power, keeping in mind that it was a common _mis_conception that one needed constant thrust to fly through the Warp.

"_What do you want me to do?"_

John had expected several other questions, but he had been prepared for this one. "I know the gun, the tactics, the battlefield... You need to do what I can't."

"_Which is?"_

"Hacking, vehicular instruction, battlefield awareness, communications tracking... Jobs befitting of a battlefield AI." John stated, sitting back in his chair and letting go of the flight-stick. John lifted his gloved, armored hand in front of his visored face, his HUD immediately marking it and giving him a light readout. "You and I are going to work together, from here on." He said, clenching his hand as tightly as he could, he could feel the skin-suit stretch across his own skin, the armor plates on his digits creak under the intense grip, the synthetic muscles enhancing his already doubly augmented strength. He felt power, and it was only his left fist, the soldier in him salivated at the prospect of how fighting would feel in this beauty of modern armor technology. "We're going to need to know how to work together. What our strengths are, our weaknesses."

"_So you want me to do what you can't when you're killing people."_ The AI correctly declared, John grunted in acknowledgment. "_Okay... I can do that."_ It said, with a nod of its holographic head. "_You handle the physical things, I, the technical things."_

"Exactly." The AI brought up a notification, a lot more time had passed than John had realized, they had thirty seconds before they broke warp-space. "First thing you'll have to do is make contact with the assault flotilla when we get to our destination." He put his hands back on the jet's controls. "Let the flotilla's commander know we've arrived, let her know where she can find the jet after we leave it."

"_Leave it?"_ The AI repeated, after they left warp-space and entered a massive expanse of nothingness.

"Yes." Said John, as he pulled up and angled himself for the nearest primary Relay, the AI informing him that she was conversing with the defense fleet's AI's and they already had clearance for Relay Transit. "The Rebel Base's air defenses were said to be thick. We have to consider them too thick for our jet." He said, as he fired the thrusters briefly to get them up to speed and angled correctly.

"_We're not going to warp in?"_

"In-atmosphere warp-transit tears apart atmospheres and ozone layers, and the deployment of _one_ terraforming disk costs approximately eight billion ninety eight million Alliance Dollars, and we would have no idea whether or not we would be warping right in front of a fortified structure, or inside it." John explained, as the relay he was aiming for turned on with a powerful blue glow. "No, we're parking in orbit." He said, as they soared towards the Relay, blue-gray electricity arcing from it and slamming into his jump-jet. John didn't panic, he knew to expect the powerful vibrations that the sheer amount of energy was projecting into the vehicle, just a second later he passed the Relay's nexus and was catapulted forward at several thousand light years per second. "And jumping."

The AI inclined its holographic head, "_jumping?"_ It asked, as John exited the Relay's mass-free corridor and found himself in a new solar system, the AI – predicting his orders – had an entry point ready in a microsecond, and with that, they were flinging themselves across the galaxy, several solar systems at a time. "_As in, Orbital Dropping Death Dealers... _jumping_?" _John's silence answered it; it considered inquiring about John's sanity, but then it remembered everything it had been learning about the suit of armor the Warrior was wearing, and realized that it was _well_ within the Titan Mk. II's capabilities to conduct a 'naked' orbital drop. That, coupled with its medical suite, which told it that he wasn't kidding, lying, or otherwise being false in his words, he was dead serious. "_Was this your first choice?"_ It inquired.

"No."

"_What was?"_

"A kamikaze strike." John deadpanned, "and I still haven't ruled it out. Keep a remote link to the ship after we leave it."

John had pushed the ship to its limits, both its structural and fuel limits, and as a result had cut his journey from its projected thirty minutes, down to twenty seven. He did _not_ want to try something like that again - jump-jets were designed for Warp transit, not Relay transit, it felt like his jet was ready to fall apart. Exiting the exit-point right into his target star-system, Cassidy – a trisyllabic name he disliked the length of – immediately informed him that he was being hailed by the _Einstein's_ AI. John delegated the AI to calculating his landing trajectory and required speed for geo-synchronous orbit, while he answered the hail; he was certain he could eyeball it, but he didn't have to - that was why he had a machine. .

"_Unidentified jump-jet, this is a restricted area, declare yourself or be shot down."_ A male-voiced AI declared, hotly.

"This is SIGMA Two-Fifteen, I am here on orders from Admiral Stephen Hackett of the Fifth Fleet. Inform Captain Shepard that I will be abandoning my jump-jet in geo-synchronous orbit above the rebel base in the dead-zone." He spoke clearly, his deep voice cutting through the radio-waves as his HUD gave him a flight-path, and told him that he needed to burn for six seconds so the ship wouldn't shave off its orbit too quickly.

"_Broadcast verification codes."_

"Sierra, India, Golf, Mike, Alpha, Two-One-Five." John listed off as he cut the engines, the AI telling him he had the velocity needed for orbit. "Cassidy, open the canopy." His suit sealed up vacuum-tight as the AI complied, and exposed the ship to the void.

A new, womanly voice entered his ears, this one familiar. "_SIGMA, our computers are telling us you just exposed yourself to the void, what are you doing?"_

John recognized the voice, it was the Captain he was reporting to. "Ma'am: Jumping." He said, as he stood up and ambled himself onto the right wing of his jump-jet, his every step made the jet shift and turn, but Cassidy kept it oriented the right way: The planet was down, the void was up. Above him lay the stars of the milky way, their distant light from hundreds of thousands of years ago hitting his visor _now,_ as it tinted in response to the reflected light from the planet below him, and the star beyond it. The planet in question, a massive, green paradise after the heart of Elysium, looked as massive to John as an Alliance Flagship would look in comparison to a fighter-jet. "Check HardLight." He said, as he activated his smart-watch.

"_HardLight green."_

"_SIGMA, that's suicide!"_ The Captain came back.

"No it isn't, ma'am... An OIV would register a target on the Rebels' AA defenses." Said John, as he saw the massive vehicle's engines flare, no doubt making ready to come pick up is ship under the Captain's orders. "My body won't trip those sensors. I may be moving fast enough, but I would be too small of a target. Check armor integrity." He ordered, as he himself checked his suit's thrusters, which were green to go.

"_Armor integrity at one hundred percent."_ Said Cassidy. "_Calculating jump trajectory."_

"_SIGMA, you can't be serious."_ The Captain said, though John, the AI, and everyone in the room with the woman recognized the defeat in her tone: she knew he was serious.

"I -" His words were cut off by a brief, bright bloom many hundred kilometers below him. Cassidy was already scanning it, the fireball wasn't large, but the shockwave was visible from space and dust and debris had been shot up several kilometers. "Report." John wouldn't jump until he knew what he was jumping into, even on Sparta, there were horror stories aplenty about OD3's leaping into situations they were ill-prepared for; more than a few of these horror stories ended with SIGMAs or N7 saving their asses.

"_Underground detonation… Satellites report no radiation… Around two kilotons."_ The AI said, "_we're safe out here, you're just outside the planet's atmosphere, even if it were strong enough, the shockwave won't reach us."_ It reported.

John nodded, "Captain, I'm getting your Marines." He leaped off of the jump-jet.

* * *

><p>"<em>Jesus fucking Christ!"<em> Shouted several Marines, as the ground began heaving and shaking beneath them. "_What the fuck is happening?!"_ Someone shouted, as others hollered various curses and exclamations.

The moment the quakes had started and jumped straight up in intensity, Jorell had been thrown from his sedentary position to a prone one, a few cracks in his visor due to its rough impact with the ground. Jorell was shaking his head and getting to his hands and knees, but he saw stars and felt like his head was in an ice-cold vice grip, anything he did made things hurt more, and the noise and disorienting shaking didn't make things any better. If he hadn't voided his stomach through his mouth earlier, he would have done so now, things were so dizzying.

Where Jorell was in dizzying pain, the washed-out SIGMA was acting. He been a Marine so long to be frightened and dazed by a manheimquake. Something was happening, that was obvious. They were under attack, that was assumable. They'd gotten reinforcements, that was his conclusion. With the quakes, he could assume that the Fleet was beginning an orbital bombardment, and since they weren't dead, he was willing to bet HOG Strikes on the lower end of the TNT-equivalent scale. It was time to break out, and since the very earth was shaking beneath their feet, the superstructure of their jail would be weakened, and, more importantly, their cell-door would be easier to break down.

So, with all of his weight, and his armor keeping him somewhat safe from breaking every bone in his shoulder, Dosdon backed up as far back as he could go, and sprinted forward as fast as he could. One slam, the cell door rattled, but stood firm. Two slams, a horrendous grinding noise was heard, but nothing else happened. Dosdon backed up, staring at it with a look that could melt steel. To a real SIGMA, they would have been through on their first shot, so damn it, _he'd_ get through _now!_

His opportunity came when the Rebel guard came stumbling in front of his cell door. He'd stood up when the ground had started shaking and the sound of thunder came from below his feet, but was now stumbling around in a desperate attempt to keep his footing on the shaking ground. Dosdon sprinted forward and instead of smashing his bruised shoulder into the door, bodily slammed into it and stuck his arms through the steel bars. Around the rebel's neck they went, and with a violent yank backwards, he slammed the back of the rebel's head into the door, knocking him out and cracking his skull.

"Jorell, get over here and hold this body up!" Dosdon yelled over the thunder, shouting, and shaking earth. He turned his head and saw that while Jorell was making an admirable attempt at following his orders, he was starting from scratch and was still in shock, he wouldn't be of help right now.

Grunting and growling through exertion, Dosdon hooked his arm around the unconscious Rebel's neck and braced him against the bars to keep him upright. He reached down and felt around in the Rebel's pants, his holster, he was looking for - he found it, stuffed down the front of his pants like an uneducated thug. He found _them._ An ancient but well-oiled machine capable of great mischief and mayhem that he could say he was surprised the Rebels hadn't made use of on their own.

With his free hand firmly gripping the barrel, he ripped the Painter's pistol from the rebel's pants and let the body fall. Dosdon backed up two steps as the pistol came to life in his hands. He aimed the pistol at the cell door and fired three times, the bright green, superheated alien substance collided with and melted through the steel in seconds. He was free, and the other Marines were noticing, and cheering him on.

Dosdon turned around and hauled Jorell to his feet. "Jorell, get up, Marine! The cavalry's coming and we're getting the hell out of here!" He said, giving Jorell a pat on the back when he nodded firmly, indicating he was at least ready to try.

It took him and the Quarian a few minutes to steal the keys and unlock the Marines, during which the shaking finally stopped. Dosdon and Lieutenant Ferrell were the only ones armed, with they two having stolen back the Painter Pistols, the riot gun having been damaged in the initial quakes. Everyone looked to Ferrell for orders, and he didn't disappoint.

"Alright, Marines! First order of business, get the hell out of this base! We're on the retreat, mission be damned, we're getting the hell out of here! I want you all to find anything you can fight with, rocks, enemy weapons, anything you can use, and use it to get us all the hell out of here! Oorah?!"

"_Oorah!"_

* * *

><p><em>AN:_

_Took 34 some-odd chapters to do it, but now our Meistro of Mayhem is all kitted out and dangerous.  
>Though, we can't forget our Superman Senior, either. Beaten and bloody though he may be, he's got a few tricks of his own up his sleeve.<em>

_I'm on Twitter, folks! -at-ProfFartBurger .  
><em>_If you, like me, don't appreciate a character limit, you can always check out my Profile, for more lengthier, in-depth updates._

_'Till next time!_

_-PFB_


	38. Chapter 35

_Chapter 35_

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><p><em>"The road to hell is paved with good intentions." <em>

— _**Bernard of Clairvaux **_

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><p><em><strong>July 2220<strong>_

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><p>In the terms of the Orbital Dropping Death Dealers, they had two things that one should never do unless they specifically <em>wanted<em> to die. The first was the more common of the two, it was failing to do a pre-drop check on a Drop Pod. If one failed to do a pre-check, one could fail to see that their landing gear is dysfunctional and their thrusters could fail to fire, which would mean they wouldn't slow down enough to make an entry, and they would smash into the ground at several dozen meters per second, in effect, 'digging their own graves'. Per year, only five graves were self-made on average. Then there was the 'Naked Drop', or what happened when someone just jumped off of a ship with no drop-pod or reentry vehicle. This method of reentry was, simply, impossible with modern technology, and was one of the reasons the name 'Suicide Leapers' stuck, because the first man who'd done it had been an OD3, and someone had coined both terms in one fell swoop.

John S2-15 was the exception to the rule when it came to Naked Drops. SIGMAs, ever since the advent of HardLight technology, were among the only people able to perform Naked Drops and live to talk about it. It had become something of a _tactic,_ because there was no greater way to control all of the variables of a drop than to just throw yourself at the mercy of gravity. With the small thrusters that came standard with every set of Titan Armor, be it the first or second model, and now Hardlight keeping their bodies free from harm and heat, SIGMAs could control everything about their drop, and many were starting to prefer it to Drop Pods.

John could see the translucent blue-white barrier surrounding his body, protecting him from the fires of reentry. The barrier immobilized him, such was one of the few real weaknesses of HardLight, but it provided him absolute protection - he could tank a nuke with it, almost point blank, and survive more or less okay. It also, since it was wrapped all around him, muted everything past his armor - the only things he could hear were the sounds of his own breathing, and Cassidy's status updates, which he tuned out once he had fed them to his altimeter. At ten thousand feet it became apparent he was off course by a few hundred meters, so he dispelled the barrier with a thought and fired the thrusters on his boots, his elbows, and the backpack-like harness. These thrusters, while not designed for actual flight, were impossibly powerful on their own - able to generate about the same as that of a jet engine. The dispersal of the HardLight barrier also had the added benefit of vanishing the flames that had enveloped him upon entry into the atmosphere, so now John had complete control over his descent.

John's target, once he got close enough to see the base without having to zoom in with his visor, would be where the prison would be on a regulation Alliance base - which, astonishingly enough, this base was looking like. Down to a T, this base screamed regulation. John's eyes narrowed slightly, there must be deserters here feeding them information.

"_John, I'm getting three pings from Titan Armor, two are still showing active vitals, they are moving around the base."_ She highlighted the Titan Armor signatures in his Hud.

John squinted his eyes, wasn't he supposed to be the only one here? "Get me in contact with them." He narrowed his body and increased the speed of his descent as he passed five thousand feet. "Let them know -"

"_They're not answering my hails."_

"Are their radios working?"

"_Yes."_

"They must be on different orders than mine. Keep me informed of their positions but otherwise, don't interfere with them." John ordered as he descended past twenty five hundred feet. He righted his orientation, feet to the ground, and then clenched both fists, which sent the signal to all thrusters to fire at full power. It slowed his descent, but he'd still die if he didn't go again, so, closer and closer the ground got, he fired the small thrusters wired into his armor again and again. After a solid minute, he was a mere hundred feet off of the ground, his target just underneath him.

One last burst sent him back under the level of lethal speed, and John hurtled right inside the base's prison complex with a loud crash and a great explosion of dust and debris. Some would claim it was a miracle he didn't land on, or otherwise injure, the Marines inside, but Cassidy had been scanning the building and calculated exactly where he needed to land to avoid injuries to him or the Marines, and with John's augmented reflexes - even dulled through lack of experience as they were - he was able to track this trajectory perfectly. That being said, the duo could not avoid stunning the Marines, who all suddenly saw this seven foot tall monster crash through the roof and land right in between them and the only exit they could reach. John looked up, the red lenses on his helmet reflected the light of Manheim's two suns while his body was cloaked in the thick dust and debris he kicked up, almost giving him a wraith-like appearance. The AI and his onboard computers were instantly identifying all of the marines, giving them their names, ranks, and other such needed information, and thanks to his brain implant, he didn't even have to read the information - it was all sent straight into his mind, as if he'd known it his entire life. It was slightly jarring, the speed at which John was given information and the speed this information was assimilated, but it wasn't too difficult to adapt as long as he didn't think about it too thoroughly.

John stood up from his kneeling position, cast in a deep silhouette by the sun above him and the thick debris floating in the air around him. All inside the prison was silent for a total of five seconds, before it finally clicked for one Marine, a Quarian who, from the looks of his bio-comm, was suffering from several broken bones, blood loss, and shock. That he was the first to react was surprising to the SIGMA II, but the fact that it was a Quarian wasn't what shocked the SIGMA, no, what the Quarian _did_ was what shocked the child soldier.

"It's a SIGMA! It's their SIGMA! Kill him!" The Quarian shouted in fear, pushing one of his allies away towards cover before he himself scrambled for it.

The highest ranking officer, a Lieutenant by the name of Ferell, and a Sniper whom John's computers recognized as a washout I candidate by the name of Dosdon S1-645, were the only ones in the prison that were armed. John didn't recognize the model weapon they held, but he registered the threat they posed when Dosdon fired and a bright green flash of light announced the thumb-sized green mass of heat soaring right for John's face.

Reacting with doubly augmented reflexes, John was already diving aside before Dosdon and then Ferell had pulled their triggers. He dove inside a cell and bodily crashed through its shut tight and locked cell door. "_Blue, blue!"_ He called out, his deep voice broadcast clearly from the speakers on his helmet. Why were they shooting at him? Were they turncoats?

"Cassidy, get the call/counter from the Admiral, _now!_" John ordered his AI implant, as he activated his HardLight shield with a simple gesture of his left hand, and he braced it in front of him. He wasn't going to kill these Marines unless he had to, and given that his HUD only registered the two of them as armed, he felt he didn't even have to to begin with.

Bright green blobs of some sort of superheated substance slammed into his shield and slid off of it after impact, leaving him unharmed, but also leaving him in a bad spot - if they really wanted to try to kill him, keeping him pinned down and under fire from unidentified weaponry was the best way to do it. Just what were they shooting him with? His HUD identified it as some sort of ionized plasma weapon, but no species in known space could weaponize plasma to such an extent. Were these Prothean guns? Had the Rebels raided a Prothean vault?

Cassidy wordlessly displayed Ferrell's call/counter signs on John's HUD. He amplified his deep voice with his speakers, cutting through all of the chaos of gunfire and shouting. "_Lieutenant Ferrell, your wife wanted me to remind you to pick up a gallon of milk before you come back home!"_ John called out, word for word, as was shown to him.

After a few seconds, the plasmafire stopped as a shocked silence temporarily filled the room. From behind his translucent shield, John could see Ferrell's hand in the air, the universal 'stop' sign. "Is… One percent or two percent?!"

John relaxed, they knew he was friendly now. "She said you would know." John responded, slowly standing up straight and letting the bright blue shield of physical light fade out of existence.

He strode out of the jail cell, shields at full strength but hands unarmed. Ferrell still tightly clutched his own pistol, but was otherwise not threatening John. "You're friendly?" He asked, his scarred face glaring angrily at John. He gave him a once-over, now that they weren't shooting, he noticed that his armor was different from other SIGMAs'. "What are you? That armor's not like other SIGMAs."

"I am friendly. I got an upgrade. Why were you shooting at me?" John asked in rapid-fire; the chaos from that kiloton explosion could wind down any moment now, and though relief efforts would add in a whole new layer of chaos and activity, he didn't want to try and work around that, he had to get these marines out of here before then.

"The Rebels have their own SIGMAs. Those bastards took down three quarters of my men before they finally stopped killing us." Ferrell growled, "and just so we're clear, until I learn where when and how they got SIGMAs, I won't trust anyone but my Marines."

John understood his last statement, but the first one sent off alarm bells in his head. If those SIGMAs were enemies, and he'd gotten pings from their armor, that meant _they'd_ gotten a ping from _his_ armor. They knew he was here, this accelerated and this changed things. Priority number one was retreating, evacuating the Marines and calling in backup - be it naval support, air support, or Marine forces, he didn't want to fight a squad of veteran SIGMAs on his own. The secondary mission was officially scrubbed - they were in escape and evasion mode now, forget the base, their lives were what mattered.

"How many of you are armed?" John asked.

"Just us two. We found a Prothean vault a few hundred clicks to the southwest and took their guns." Ferrell explained. "Good for killing everything, even their SIGMAs." He left the threat unspoken, though neither John nor his AI missed the tone in the man's voice.

"Where would the Rebels store these weapons? Are they reliable?" If John could get his hands on one of these Prothean guns, he'd have an immediate and tangible advantage over the enemy SIGMAs, which he would _need_ in the inevitable confrontation.

Dosdon piped up, "most likely in their armory, but that's on the other side of the base, Sergeant-Major." He informed.

"We can't escape unarmed." John responded, "so here's what we do. You all stay behind me, the base is still in chaos from the underground detonation, we'll use that and the ash-cloud to sneak to the other side of the base and arm up, weapons, ammunition, armor. I want you all in squads of three and I want you all to maintain physical contact with each other. You follow me and you do what I say, are we clear?"

The Marines looked to Ferrell, who nodded. "We're clear, SIGMA."

"Then move out. If we're engaged by the enemy SIGMAs, don't wait, don't ask questions, _**run.**_ My AI is clearing an evac-point as we speak and it will be uploaded to your HUDs. I'll hold them off for as long as possible."

* * *

><p>John was right, the base was still in chaos. Anyone who wasn't injured was transporting injured or scouring ground zero for survivors and evidence of what the hell happened. Anyone who was injured was being brought to the infirmary, which had to be overflowing at this point - a full scale attack, and then a several kiloton underground detonation would create an overflow of injured. Couple all of that with a thick ash cloud coating the ground, it was the perfect environment for a hasty tactical advance towards an armory.<p>

The problem was, John's opponents were, like him, trained in asymmetrical anti-SIGMA warfare. They knew the moment the Marines brought down their jammer that they'd have to fight an augmented response unit, and as such they prepared for it. If John were in their shoes, he'd predict that his enemy's goal would be the evacuation of the Marines, and he'd conclude that he wouldn't _dare_ evacuate over a dozen unarmed men, women, and Quarians in varying states of injury. With that in mind, if John had been in the enemy SIGMAs' shoes, he'd set up a trap in the armory - either a bottleneck, a bomb, or a killzone. Make it impossible for him to advance or retreat and get him stuck in a no-win scenario.

_But,_ therein lay the most fundamental point of anti-SIGMA warfare: The enemy always knows what you're doing. So, again in his enemy's shoes, John would have predicted that he would have therefor decided to skip the ambush in the armory entirely and make a full, hasty retreat. A risky maneuver, but that prevented the possibility of an immediate SIGMA assault. So with this in mind, John would have set up a trap outside of the base - mines, trip-lasers, motion sensors, anything to alert him to his enemy's position and give him time to predict their path so as to set up an ambush. So with that in mind, what the Rebel SIGMAs would want to do would be to set up their traps and their ambushes outside of the base and abandon the armory; but again, the point of anti-SIGMA warfare was that the enemy always knew what you were doing.

The obvious solution was to plan for everything. Given the complexity of setting up a large-scale trap outside of the base, John predicted that one of the two living armor pings he'd gotten earlier would be outside setting up the traps and making ready to set up the ambush, and the second would be lying in wait - likely with Rebel fire support toting Prothean guns - in the armory. So the best plan would be the path of least resistance - go for the armory, and then beat feet for the evac shuttles; but when facing overwhelming odds wielding advanced alien weaponry, when he only had two men with alien sidearms as backup, what would be the best solution? Going in headfirst would be surefire death, and the SIGMA watching over the armory would expect him to try an explosive entry from behind. John didn't have the time nor the resources to try going from below, and since his entire objective was to get as many Marines out alive as possible, he couldn't send in any as a suicide-distraction so he could sneak in and take as many out as fast as possible.

So, in a game of speed-chess when one's opponent knew and accounted for every possible move one could make, how did one win? Simply put, one made a move that couldn't possibly be accounted for, they flipped the table and pulled a gun on the opponent. When the front door and the back door were both accounted for and covered, John chose the rooftop entrance. Better yet, there _was_ no rooftop entrance, and because his enemy would be prepared for it, his plan would be perfect: He would set up and detonate a pack of explosives to simulate a dynamic entry from above and behind, and then he would lead the assault from the front. He would dizzy his enemies from all sides and kill them all while they were distracted.

_This is what they call checkmate._ Thought John, as he set up his C7 explosives on the back entrance. His Marines were hidden around the front entrance and were waiting his go-ahead to go ahead. He'd divvied out any weapons they came across to the best, least injured shots, and given them each a grenade to use in emergencies. The Marines were instructed to wait until after the explosion, and until he gave a go-ahead, before they were to enter and grab any weapon they could find and enter the fight - the priority was killing the enemy SIGMA first.

Someone asked John how such a thing could be feasibly done when it had taken literally dozens of them, all of whom had the advanced alien plasma guns, just to bring down _one_ SIGMA. John stared at the man for a moment and said "overwhelm him." Such was honestly the only weakness SIGMAs had anymore - thanks to HardLight, even McGraw's second condition couldn't kill them.

John turned the corner and it only took him an instant to stop his movement, halt his momentum, and leap backwards to avoid the wall of guns and the showers of gunfire that met him. Rule number one of anti-SIGMA warfare was to think of every one of one's enemy's moves and account for them, and his enemy had done just that and had pre-emptively attacked, as silently as he could, the moment he suspected that John-S2-15 was at his doorstep. While John hadn't planned for this, he was a good improvisor - eleven years of endless war scenarios with the best soldiers in the galaxy made one a master of such a skill; John also knew that if he wanted to win this, he would have to improvise in such a way that the SIGMA wouldn't be able to predict it.

So instead of returning fire or retreating, John detonated his C7, but he didn't run for the holes he made, he sprinted over several meters, right next to where Cassidy had the rebel position marked. He took two steps back, and with a clenched chest and a small scowl, sprinted forward, straight for the wall. Accompanying both detonations, he smashed through the several inch thick concrete wall with nothing but his augmented strength, his power armor, and his shoulder. All of the dust and debris in the air, doubled by the thickness still hanging in the air from earlier, would hamper only the Rebels.

With the debris flying in all directions and the rebels stunned from the explosions, they were simply unable to react fast enough to John's sudden and unexpected breach. The SIGMA leapt forward, arms held outward, and smashed into one rebel, his sheer weight caving in the man's ribcage, while his extended arms caught the throats of two other rebels and shattered their spines. John landed into a roll, and sprung to his feet, smashing his fist into one Rebel who was swinging around his rifle. The SIGMA's strength was so great that the Rebel's bones resisted about as successfully as wet paper resisted a rail-gun - they all caved in and the organs they protected simply shattered and burst under John's furious physical assault. John, quick as lightning, whipped his head to the side and parried a wild haymaker, unintentionally snapping like a twig the bone of the arm he batted aside, before he locked his hands onto the limp arm and bodily yanked the Rebel forward. Unfortunately for John, he again underestimated his newfound doubly augmented strength, and the power afforded to him by the muscle suit. Instead of throwing the Rebel forward like a Human battering-ram, he ripped the Rebel's arm clean off with a loud snap and a shower of blood and gore. On the other side of unfortunate, John's reaction time, even now, so soon after waking from the operating table, was in milliseconds - he had already known his original plan was doomed to fail almost before the arm had been detached. Improvizing, John simply kicked back with his booted foot and caved in the chest of the disarmed Rebel, and let the arm fly at the few who remained. John was a mere instant away from ripping his rifle from his back and dispatching his enemies, when he saw it - the damning blue dot on his motion tracker, hurtling towards him at inhuman speeds.

John had only a second to turn to face his opponent, who was moving too fast for most organics to process. John, utilizing his many perception-enhancing augmentations, saw the whole thing happening in slow motion, turning his single second into a short eternity. The SIGMA was sprinting, crouched down low in a bee-line stance, one arm stretched out and held back, the other hovering near his chest, one leg already extended and heading for the ground, the other pushing him forward with its superhuman strength. Faster than a blink of an eye, John made several rapid conclusions; the SIGMA was coming in for a savage right hook, he was moving too fast and was positioned to stiffly to try any other good attacks, though with the way his other hand was placed it was likely he may attempt a choke-slam. With the man's speed and his strength, his impact would hurt, even accounting for John's augments.

With a deep scowl, and in a flurry of movement, John quickly threw up his left hand to parry the right cross from the sprinting SIGMA. John threw his right hand in an upward curve, intending to catch the SIGMA in the throat, but due to the position of the SIGMA's off-hand, he was able to catch John's palm-strike and divert it. John side-stepped the SIGMA's sprint, keeping his hand locked to both of the SIGMA's, and used the One's momentum to bring him into a spin. John spun once before he let go of the One, who careened into a wall and crashed straight through it, sending it crumbling to the ground. John would have followed up the attack, but of the corner of his eyes he saw a faded, almost imperceptible silhouette standing up in the main entrance and aiming a weapon in John's direction, and barely a second after that, the blue dot was on the move again, heading straight for John. After a split-second calculation, John leapt out of the way of three rapid plasma shots, which instead sailed straight for the SIGMA, who too had to dodge them, forcing his eyes to be taken off of John. Using this distraction, John dropped a smoke grenade and a flash-bang to cover his tracks. He sprinted off to find a place to hide and launch an ambush, silently cursing his luck, but praising his technology.

The enemy SIGMA, with his Titan armor, would have the requisite vision modes in his visor to see through the smoke - electromagnetic vision, thermal, anything including night vision, though SIGMA eyesight was so good that they didn't really need it. However, while Titan Mk. II wasn't necessarily designed with II's fighting I's in mind, it was designed to be applicable in any situation, including ones where enemies would have enhanced vision. So when the enemy SIGMA came barreling after John, John's suit was already masking his heat signature and distributing it out through the ground at such a level and frequency that it would be mistaken - even by SIGMAs - to be simple ambient heat. John was effectively invisible, this fact led the enemy SIGMA to incorrectly assume that John was using his Tactical Cloak, and as such he searched less for heat signatures and more for the brief ripples in light that came from a moving target in a tactical cloak, and though John had considered that route, he knew that the SIGMA would be specifically looking for it, and wouldn't know to look for any of the Mk. II's tells. It was a minor victory, but he was fighting a purebred SIGMA - he needed all of the victories he could get.

_I have him at the advantage… But I can't move if he's ever within five meters of me._ Radar-fooling motion dampeners was a technology that had proved itself to be impossible to create for the last half-century, with the running joke being that neither McGraw senior, or after his death, his son, hadn't gotten bored yet. So John's advantage was as much of a disadvantage, if he even considered moving while he could still see E-SIGMA on his radar, the enemy SIGMA would see _him _on _his _radar, and John would be in for the fight of his life; so all he had to do was stay still when he saw the enemy SIGMA, move when he didn't, and find himself one of those alien guns. Anything less wouldn't work, he couldn't set traps because the SIGMA would see them coming, and he couldn't engage the man with conventional weaponry because that didn't guarantee fast results. _Vi-Contactus_ held promise, but John doubted how well it would hold up in a life or death fight with a SIGMA - those few blows he'd taken in their brief fight amidst the smoke and debris were already beginning to burn and throb in pain.

Thus, the game of cat-and-mouse raged, with the stakes being the lives of the captured Force-Recon Marines. John didn't know what was keeping them, his radar couldn't see that far, and he feared using any surface-penetrating vision enhancers, because the SIGMA may catch it. Every step of progress John made, was hampered by an intuitive move from the SIGMA, until John realized after six and a half seconds of uninterrupted stillness and silence that the SIGMA had stopped moving entirely, in an effort to entice John himself to move. They were at a complete standstill, and John knew that the first person to move even an inch would be the person to die.

_This is where advanced technology becomes a burden…_ Thought John, as he shot down the age-old tactic of very, very slow movement; such an idea would have worked a hundred - or even a mere fifty - years ago, but not anymore, motion sensors were very good at what they did, even reaching up to pluck a grenade from his vest and throwing it would tip the SIGMA off, ruining the distraction provided by the grenade.

_Okay… Think._ Thought John with a blank face, and wide, _almost_ scowling eyes.

* * *

><p>Outside, with his hands on his aching head and his sore body kneeling like a dog on the ground, Jorell'Sahn could only be described as livid. This entire day had been a clusterfuck of epic proportions, and by some curse of the Quarian Ancestors and the Human gods, he, Dosdon, Ferrell, and close to two dozen Force Recon Marines were being held hostage by five Rebels, one of whom was so overweight that Jorell's Drill Instructor would have laughed him off of the base. If they would have spared Jorell's mask from its quite literal crushing demise, it would have been steaming up from all of the unbridled rage radiating off of it. He hated his situation, he hated this day, he hated this planet, he hated the Rebels, and god damn it to the ancestors and back, he hated the fact that he couldn't use the Painters' guns!<p>

_So help me… I'm keeping one of those fucking things… And I'm going to fuck with it, smash it, hack it, rewire it, and stare at it until I can make it work for me._ Thought the growling Quarian, as his three-fingered hands worked the interface of the cybernetic cuffs that were binding him, from memory alone, backwards. It was less picking the locks of the cuffs, and more hacking the interface - which, while possible, was difficult to do without handicaps, but with them, it was something approaching impossible. The only reason he knew how to do it in the first place was because the operating system the cuffs used was an off-shoot of most modern Smart Watch systems, meaning that the tricks that were important, were universal, they worked, and they were the only ones he needed - they were his lockpicks. The only problem was the tricks that didn't work - he had no way of telling whether or not he was doing something, the haptic interface was good, but it wasn't designed for blind people. This meant he had to rely upon his memory of the OS, button placement, keeping in mind that he had to mirror those memories to count for the fact that his hands were behind his back, and brief auditory cues to make sure he was on the right track. One mistake and he could lock himself out.

_If this doesn't work.._ Thought the Quarian, _I think I remember where this model's power cells are. Electromagnetic locks need power - without them, the cuffs are only paperweights… Come on… Down, Down, Up, Up, swipe right, swipe left… Another left and another right… _He heard a brief, satisfactory ping followed by a static noise - he was almost done. _Back… Accept… Enter._

He heard a loud 'click', and the cyber-cuffs' electromagnetic locks powered down. He let loose a slow, shaky sigh of sweet relief. What he'd been doing could very well have had the opposite effect, had them tighten their hold so much so that they cut off his hands. Keeping his gaze locked on the boots of the impatient Rebels, the fat one of whom held the Painter Pistols stolen from Ferrell and Dosdon, the latter of whom was sitting next to him. Jorell wished he'd been sat to his back, Jorell figured he could have freed him too, but there was only so much luck one could have in one day, and it seemed that being able to train a washed out SIGMA turned Marine sniper was outside of those bounds. Getting to help despite his bindings, however, was not outside of those bounds.

Jorell bumped into Dosdon and grunted out, "cuffs off. Need help."

Dosdon almost immediately sprang into action, screaming hysterically as if in intense pain. He threw his head forward and back, from side to side, screaming and yelling, his eyes clenched tight, before he eventually started smashing his head onto the dirt ground. The Rebels guarding the Marines had been visibly startled by his display, and after a few seconds of Dosdon smashing his head on the ground, they forcibly pushed one over to check on the guy. The other Marines, the ones that knew Dosdon, were getting in on the act.

"He needs ARS shots! Dude's got augment-rejection!" Someone called out.

"Don't just let him die! What the hell kind of men are you?!"

"Get him to a hospital!" Another shouted, as the unlucky rebel came within striking distance of the sniper and the engineer.

Dosdon, upon seeing the shadow come over him, immediately forced his head upwards, into the unfortunate rebel's groin. The rebel didn't even have time to scream and shout in pain, because the moment he was hit in the family jewels, Jorell, forcing himself to ignore the pain of his numerous injuries, sprang to his feet and had the man in a headlock with one arm, and his human pistol in hand with the other. Jorell had scant seconds before the element of surprise wore off, and he knew he had to make the best of every one, so he forcibly hauled the Rebel around so he was facing his friends, who were only just now starting to react. Jorell lifted the pistol and, using his captive as a steady, aimed and fired at the Rebel with the Painter Pistols. By some stroke of the Humans' God and his own Ancestors, he pulled off a clean headshot, but the next shot - the one going for the Rebel with an intimidatingly large shotgun - went a little low and slammed into his throat, exploding out the back of his neck in a shower of gore.

Two rebels down, with a third struggling weakly against Jorell's headlock, the Quarian found himself now in a standoff. Rebels didn't have shields, and their armor was patchwork at best, so he wasn't willing to put too much stock in a meatshield. The other two Rebels were livid, their pale faces red with anger, but they were smart, too - here was a Quarian who'd managed to kill two of them and take a third hostage; while it was totally within their realm of possibility to open up on him and just end it, they couldn't just shoot their buddy. On the flip side, if Jorell fired now, with his surprise long since worn off, he'd sign his death warrant. But, luckily for him, the other Marines were feeding off of his stupidity, and the one closest to the Rebel who wore a bullet belt like some fool Hollywood action star, launched himself upwards from the ground, tackling the man and sending him careening to the ground. Jorell took his opportunity, whipped his pistol around to the other rebel, and fired three times, two hitting his chest, a third plowing through his nose.

"Down!" Jorell yelled to the Marine, who was savagely stomping on the only remaining Rebel's chest. The other Marine leapt back, and Jorell poured all but one of his remaining bullets into the machine gunner. The last one went into his captive.

They were free, but despite that, the thing running through Jorell's mind was a feeling of utter disbelief that he'd actually pulled this stunt off. _How the fuck did I do that?!_ Silently demanded the Quarian of himself. He shook his head and got to work unlocking everyone's cuffs. While it was difficult to do it backwards, forwards it was pitifully easy - electromagnetic cuffs all had the same weakness: power. All he had to do was manipulate the interface and force them to kill power. First he had Dosdon free, who immediately sprang into action, grabbing a weapon and searching the rebels for keys, while Jorell worked to get the others free.

When ten minutes passed, and everyone was free, Jorell pointed to the building in which the two SIGMAs were fighting, before he shouted, "_WEAPONS! GO, GO, GO"_

* * *

><p>Were the SIGMAs a petty bunch, they would have held their pride as super soldiers above their own mortality, and wouldn't have accepted any sort of help from the grunts, be they Marines or Soldiers, or anything above and below in skill. Fortunately for John, the first generation had pettiness and arrogance beaten out of them during the SIGMA Seven, and the second generation simply never had either in the first place - one of the first things they were taught was humility and acceptance of the fact that they may need help from time to time.<p>

_SIGMAs are not infallible. We may be gods on the battlefield, but even God has angels. Even the Devil has demons._ Recalled John, as his motion-tracker showed a veritable sea of green dots flooding the building. Mere moments later he saw the SIGMA's blue dot, and a few Rebel red dots, all begin flooding the building he found himself temporarily stuck in. Likely, they were going for the same place he was, and he knew that his enemy SIGMA would be using this to his advantage as well - at this point, it was all a matter of who got to the armory first, and who did the most damage when they got there. With that in mind, John exploded forth, his heavy and fast footfalls leaving visible cracks in the marble floor. He saw the blue dot forcing his way through red dots, and he saw green dots making all-or-nothing mad-dashes for the armory, it was a race against time, and whoever got there first would win.

_The rule of Anti-SIGMA warfare is to plan for everything, and act in a way your opponent can't plan for!_ John recalled, his face set in stone as he prepared himself for what came next. John brought up the scans of the building, and the location of the armory relevant to him. Two routes were immediately highlighted in his HUD - the safest, and then the fastest - but he ignored them both as he took in the building's scans, coming to conclusion that the computer's 'fastest' route was considering that he wasn't willing to make a bee-line for it; in other words, that he wanted to preserve the building's structural integrity. John, however, didn't care for that - all he cared about was winning the fight.

In less than two seconds, he had gone over all of the data and reached his conclusion: The best route was the easiest one, and the easiest one was to go straight for the armory. Not stopping for even a second, John literally tackled his way through a several inch thick stone wall. Modern day, regulation bases had their walls made out of a newer concrete mix developed in the 2170's, that was, on average and dependant on mixture, three times as tough as the concrete used before then, and John was putting his triply augmented strength, speed, and durability to good use by slamming through them, shoulder first.

"_John!"_ He heard Cassidy call out, as his shields were stressed by the second wall. "_John, you need to stop - one of your surgical scars -"_ With a brief command, John muted her as he smashed through the third wall and shattered his shields shattered, which meant on the fourth his armor was caked and covered in dust and debris, but by the fifth, he'd made his objective - a deceptively massive hall of guns and ammunition.

The left side of his body felt like it was on fire, and for a moment he'd feared he'd dislocated his arm, but his suit confirmed that the worst damage he'd done was some severe bruising and a few lacerations that had made it through his skin suit, though Cassidy did make certain to highlight that he'd opened up one of the surgical scars running down his abdomen. It was one of the smaller scars, and his suit was already growing into the wound to stop it from bleeding, but it was still an injury he would have to deal with.

He skidded to a halt, finding himself in the back of the armory, rows and rows of guns in front of him. In less than a second he was already issuing his AI an order, "Cassidy, scan the hall and find me the Plasma weapons the Marines fired on me with, and find me the biggest one." The AI implanted in his neck complied instantly by using John's HUD to blanket the room in a translucent blue/white field, before locating the weapons in question, all discarded in a large bin near the room's real entrance. The biggest one was near the top of the pile and the AI outlined it in a red wireframe, John crossed the room and was there in a second.

He grabbed the rifle and took just as long as it took to extend and activate itself to marvel at its sleek appearance and elegantly contained power. It transformed from its original, seamless, silver egg shape to a rifle, complete with a stock, a pistol-grip, and iron sights. The weapon, however, possessed no trigger, and due to its alien nature, John's HUD didn't sync up with it, merely displaying a grayed out rifle outline to signify that it knew he was armed, but not what he was armed with.

"Cassidy -"

"_Best guess, squeeze the grip._" The AI said before John could even finish, "_you've got friendlies incoming."_

John whirled around, aimed the weapon at the big wooden door, and squeezed the grip. It was made of some sort of rubber, gelatinous substance that molded around his fingers when he squeezed, and returned to its original shape when he let go. The pressure with which he squeezed dictated how much power it put into its beam - and a small holographic display to the left of the barrel indicated what John quickly surmised as a heat gauge, and in the three seconds it took to turn the door into a smoldering pile of wood, it barely even registered a quarter of its heat limit. Beyond the door, John saw Marines sprinting inside and desperately lunging for the nearest weapons, a green-suited Quarian at the head of their group, a pistol held tightly in his three-fingered hand.

"_GET IN HERE AND GET ARMED!"_ John ordered loudly, as he kicked the bin over to the marines.

As the Marines stormed inside and started grabbing and loading the nearest weapons, John stacked up to the left of the destroyed door; the Marines didn't have to be asked twice, and trailing behind them were the far more numerous red dots.

"I want three of you with alien rifles covering the opening I made in the back, if we have to escape, that's our escape route! The rest of you, arm up with alien weapons if you can, and Alliance weapons with as much ammunition as you can physically carry, if you can't. We're going to kill their SIGMA and then we're extracting -" He ordered at top speed, just as the last Marine crossed the door's threshold and he started seeing Rebels round the corner, he broke cover and squeezed the trigger with all of his might.

The beam of bright green, super-heated plasma that shot out of his newly acquired alien weapon was as thick around as a basketball, belying its small barrel, and hot enough to melt steel, so when it smashed into the first unlucky rebel who, like all of his friends, wore patchwork armor and had no energy shields to speak of, he was flash-cooked and burned absolutely black. His clothes and armor were melted onto his body and the beam carved through his chest and kept going, killing two more rebels that couldn't dodge the beam, and grievously injuring three others that tripped over their newly dead comrades, before they all, out of fear and out of sanity, dived for cover. The heat-gauge jumped up to halfway between ready to use and dead to the world - as that was what John was assuming - and the fact that the grip wasn't crushed under his intense strength told John that this thing was made out of some sturdy stuff.

The firefight with the Rebels, especially when the Marines joined in with their own plasma rifles, essentially equated to the appetizer, to the fight with the E-SIGMA's main course. John and the Marines literally melted through the Rebels with ease, thanks not to their superior numbers or tactics, but to the Marines' primal fear for their lives, and the alien weapons they'd appropriated for themselves. When the SIGMA arrived, John instantly shifted his still-firing weapon onto the primary threat, carving a path of superheated destruction in his wake, leaving the concrete walls melted and bright red.

The SIGMA took a two second blast of plasma straight to the chest before he dived out of the way and into cover. John ordered the Marines to focus on the rebels while he took on the SIGMA, and he shifted his focus onto burning away the SIGMA's cover while he ordered an idle Marine to retrieve him another rifle, and put it on his back. John felt the metallic clamp just as the SIGMA realized what he was doing, broke cover, and fired wildly at John. John's plasmafire shattered his shields and slammed into his shoulder plate full-force, turning it bright red from the heat. John's own shields took fire but he was far better off than the SIGMA, who took a page out of John's book and tackled his way through a wall to get out of John's way.

"_Keep fighting!"_ John couldn't let the SIGMA regroup, so with that order, he barreled through the door to the armory and sprinted after the SIGMA, running parallel to the blue dot and smashing through walls to keep up with him, his plasma rifle held in one hand and spitting a continuous stream of fire, and a circular Hardlight shield projecting from the other hand, taking the force of impact from the walls so his own shields wouldn't.

John and the SIGMA left destruction in their wake, and within seconds had smashed their way outside. With most - if not, all - of the Rebels down at ground zero helping with the excavation and emergency search and rescue, John and the SIGMA had a lot of space to themselves and a lot of ground to fight upon. They kept running parallel to each other, the SIGMA took more fire but himself fired at John, his bullets beating John's shields down to a quarter strength, as John's rifle neared its limit. In the brief instants John had to get a good look at the SIGMA, he saw a horrifying sight - the SIGMA was indeed wearing Titan armor, not a patchwork suit or something cobbled together, the man was wearing his Spartan plates. It wasn't a SIGMA Rebel, it was a _Rebel SIGMA, _a traitor.

_I have to find out why. I need to stun him! _John thought hurriedly, before he made a snap-decision and came up with the best course of action. "_Cassidy, find me this thing's power cell, now!"_ John shouted as the rifle clicked on overheated, and all of the parts extended outwards, exposing its heat-sink to the open air and venting the whole thing.

Cassidy highlighted what it concluded to be the rifle's power cell just as John threw it like a javellin at the SIGMA. He predicted the SIGMA would halt his movement and dive the opposite way, and the SIGMA didn't disappoint - it was an instinctual reaction. John quick-drew his magnum and took aim with one hand, the world slowed down as he lined up the barrel of his pistol with the plasma rifle's heat-sink, he fired twice and the white-hot, glowing heat sink shattered. However, a testament to the opponent he was fighting, what he banked on didn't occur. The One almost instantly deduced what John was attempting when his back hit the ground, so as John was lining up his shot, the One drew his own pistol and lined up his own. What happened next was something almost out of myth: John's bullets shattered and destroyed the glowing-hot heat sink, and the SIGMA's bullets slammed into the butt of the gun, the result being that the gun spun out of control and away from its original intended target. In less than a second, the destroyed heat-sink showered the air with its nearly-slagged material, completely missing the power cell and failing to detonate the weapon.

Upon seeing his plan fail, John reacted in a few milliseconds, whipping his pistol back over to the One, steadying his aim, and firing. In what could only be described as a battle of reaction times, the One, still at the disadvantage, too shifted his aim to John, knowing that the only way to survive was to attempt the impossible. John had fired twice, meaning he either had fourteen or fifteen rounds left in his gun, whereas the One had only fired once - meaning he either had as many or one more bullets than John. Given his weakened armor integrity and recovering shields, he couldn't let a single bullet get past his defenses - it would weaken him to the point where winning the inevitable physical confrontation would be that much more difficult. The One's targeting systems kicked in, tracing John's gun and giving him a trajectory, simultaneously giving him his own line of sight and his own bullet's trajectory. He saw John squeezing the trigger, he adjusted his aim for lost time, and fired.

Were anyone else watching, what happened next would happen so fast that it would have been a literal blink-and-you-miss-it moment. John and the One each emptied their magazines, their bullets sailing through the meagre distance between them with pinpoint accuracy, but not a single one of them hit their opponent. In those blisteringly fast moments that only the SIGMAs were able to properly perceive, they saw exactly what happened: The bullets soared through the air and impacted eachother. Thanks to the prone One's aiming, he either outright halted or deflected the bullets fired by John; the veteran super-soldier shot the child-soldier's bullets out of the air.

Neither of them had even a microsecond to marvel at the One doing what, by all rights, should have been feasibly impossible, because when the display was over, John clicked on empty, but the One had just one more bullet in his gun. The One's final bullet hit John's shields right between his eyes, causing his head to snap back for an instant. The One scrambled to his feet as John's head snapped back, the Two clamped his gun to his thigh and charged forward, parrying a straight punch from the one by back-handing it away, before John launched his own fist forward towards the One's throat. The One held an advantage over John in the armor category - his were raw armor plates, with a density and strength behind them that even John in his power armor would have trouble breaking through them, meaning that John would only be hurting himself if he hit them, so instead, he targeted the only true weakness the SIGMA in front of him had.

John's fist slammed into the One's throat, collapsing his windpipe. The man clenched his jaw and crouched down low, before leaping upwards, grabbing John by his midsection and sending them both arcing towards the ground. John, however, clearly remembered his enemy's fondness for the ground - and the moment he confirmed that the man was indeed trying to take it there again, he acted. John ripped both feet out from underneath the man's knees and scissor-kicked, his legs locking around the man's head. As fast as he could, the Two grabbed ahold of both of the One's arms and lifted with his lower body, hauling the one over him in a leg-enabled suplex.

The One's head smashed into the ground, John heard the sound of glass cracking. Keeping a hold of the One's arms, John let go with his feet and spun around, reaching a kneeling position with the One's arms crossed painfully behind his back. John stood up and slammed his foot into the One's back - visibly denting his armor and causing the One to grunt in pain. John pressed forward with his leg and pulled back with his hands, hearing the one of the One's arms snap as it was dislocated - stunning the One long enough for John to talk.

In a deep voice and an extended cry that almost seemed to silence the entire base, John bellowed "_WHY?!"_ With all of the air in his lungs.

The SIGMA, whose body burned from the plasma strikes and whose skin was slowly swelling from the physical assault given to him, slowly turned his head to the side, to get a look at John. The once proud golden visor was now visibly cracked, with some pieces chipping off and ruining the previously awe-inspiring visage. The One's breathing slowed by a fraction - as if he suddenly realized something that had been eluding him earlier.

"_Oh my god…"_ A slightly garbled, but definitely feminine voice broadcast from mangled and damaged helmet-speakers, only slightly surprising John, who didn't care one way or another what gender this person was, or how Titan armor was intentionally built androgynously, so as to hide gender - she'd still turned coat, and he didn't know _why_. "_I thought he was lying… They actually did it… You're -"_ She pushed backwards, managing to cause John to stumble just enough to rip one arm from his iron grip, shearing a surprising amount of black paint from her vambraces.

Using the dislocated arm still in John's grip as a pivot, the One swung herself around and smashed her good fist into John's helmeted face, before following it up with a knee to the gut. Despite hardening in response to the physical trauma, a debilitating amount of force was still sent through John's muscle suit, stunning the Two long enough for the One to grab his forearm and pull as she savagely kicked him in the side of his ribcage. His grip slacked just enough for her to rip her dislocated arm out of his hand, and with a roundhouse kick to the back of his knee, she bought herself enough time to forcibly set her arm. Her Titan suit immediately recognized the injury and in less than a second it had the arm properly set, undoing any mistakes she had made in her haste, and ready to fight again, but by that point, John had recovered, and the boy was livid. Fourteen years of rage, frustration, sorrow, endless training, reflexes, and skill, all released in one ear-splitting roar.

Before the One could blink, John was on his feet, lungs still straining to maintain his bellowing scream, his fist hurtling towards her face as fast as he could possibly make it. Even to her augmented reflexes and perception, it was difficult to follow, and even more difficult to react to. She attempted to intercept the blow, but wasn't able to halt it, or even slow it down enough to mitigate the damage. His fist caught in her hand and pushed it back, smashing it into her visor - further damaging it, severely denting the helmet, and sending her head reeling backwards. Before she could react, John grabbed the weakened sections of her chestplate and, with a furious roar, tore it from its joints, destroying the sensitive machinery held within and exposing her skin suit. John smashed the nearly useless chestplate into the One before he delivered a debilitating front-kick, sending her skidding backwards.

Quick as a flash, the One turned her backwards momentum into an advantage and leapt into it to gain some distance between the two. She rolled onto her hands and sprung upwards - landing on the wall with a loud thump and a visible dent in the concrete surface, her own suit-mounted thrusters pulsing briefly so as to make certain she didn't simply burst through the wall. Her head sprung upwards and her eyes locked onto John's helmet's soulless red plates. Before gravity could truly take ahold of her, she pushed off of the wall with all of her strength, managing to finally shatter it with the raw power behind her augmented legs. John was in a defensive stance before she could blink, but nothing he could do could halt her momentum, so when she hit him, she tackled him to the ground. She unleashed a furious assault on his helmeted face, visibly denting the helmet's plates, scraping off the light-absorbing paint and breaking skin on John's face.

After three powerful blows, John caught one of her fists in his own and wrapped his arm around hers, locking her to him. He wrenched backwards, his free hand smashing into her head as it was pulled forward with the rest of her, resulting an audible metal-on-metal clang, similar to a hammer hitting a nanvil. She reacted fast enough for someone taking multiple impacts equivalent to the force of a jackhammer to her face, repeatedly. She grabbed John's other arm with her free one, and planted both feet to each of John's sides. With a loud yell, she hauled John to his feet and spun once before she let him go and he flew into the wall she'd leapt off of, crashing straight through it and into a desk, which crumbled to pieces upon impact.

John sprang to his feet, and saw the One charging him, a knife in her hand, held in a reverse grip. He scowled and with little more than a thought and a brief gesture, generated a small hardlight buckler that curved around his left forearm, while his right hand ripped his own knife from the sheathe on his harness. The pale blue light of his hardlight shield cast the two of them in an ominous, almost ghastly glow in the otherwise pitch black former armory. With the dust and debris from their chase and their re-entrance still handing thick, the two were relying on equal parts instinct, senses, and technology to make out the other.

John deflected one blow of her knife with his shield and slashed at her with his own. She targeted any part of him she could get - again taking advantage of his large lack of any true armor plating - and he targeted the weakness he'd ripped off of her. Their knives clashed with muted clangs, chipping pieces off of each other and sending jarring vibrations down their arms. The One utilized her superior experience with a blade to keep John off balance, each attack flowing into another, some stunning with powerful electric shocks, some actually managing to breach his defenses and cut small grooves in his muscle-suit, which mitigated a great deal of damage by hardening, but was unable to avoid everything.

For what John lacked in battlefield experience with blades, however, he made up for with raw physical power and superior reflexes. The One was able to make several noticeable gashes on his suit, many piercing it temporarily and managing to cut into his flesh, drawing up rivulets of blood and causing brief but intense pain through a series of electric shocks, revealing to him that the warrior wasn't using an ordinary knife - she was using one specifically designed for people with ironclad defenses; even if she didn't create a deep injury, the electric shock would cauterize the wound and stun him long enough for her to attack again, to say nothing of what happened to his body every time he was shocked with dozens of milliamps of electricity. This revelation led John to conclude she had likely taken up the knife after seeing how well John was holding up to her physical assault. John brought up his buckler to catch a downward stab, catching the knife firmly. He switched from a defensive reverse-grip to an offensive forward grip in less than a second, and swung the blade upward, slamming it into her exposed stomach and ripping it back out before her suit could clamp down on the blade and break it. Three times he managed to stab her before she caught his knife-hand with her off hand, bringing the two into a raw physical struggle.

"_WHY?!"_ John bellowed for the second time, as he felt her trying to overcome his muscle-suit's defenses and crush his hand.

"_We are not ready, SIGMA!"_ The woman responded, equally as fiercely. "_We are not ready to lead ourselves! Not on this stage! We need a guiding hand! We need time to learn!"_ She grunted, as John began making progress in their struggle, slowly putting her on the backfoot. "_YOU are proof! Proof we are just NOT READY!"_

With an angry grunt, John threw his forehead into hers, finally shattering her visor and revealing the upper half of her face to him and, more importantly, his suit's sensory suite, which was almost immediately activated and manned by Cassidy. He almost didn't even notice that he'd managed to injure himself with that hit - blood started pouring down his forehead.

"_Why are you FIGHTING ME?!"_ John screamed, his voice reverberating inside his helmet and deeply penetrating her exposed ears.

"_Because you'll ruin everything!"_ The SIGMA abruptly let go of her knife, causing John's left hand to rocket upwards and the knife to tumble downwards - right back into her waiting grip. She immediately stabbed upwards, piercing John's skin suit and sending thousands of volts of electricity directly into his system. She managed to get one more stab in before John yanked the hand she still had clenched to the left, knocking her knife out of the way of his core. John kicked at her gut, feeling her augmented stomach rupture from the force of his kick, almost immediately prompting the severely injured SIGMA to drop her grip and fall to the ground as she began bleeding internally.

Quick as a flash, belying his labored functions and multiple injuries, John had his knife sheathed and his backup-plasma weapon shouldered. She was now well and truly at his mercy, and his question still stood, "_why?! Why did you desert - why are you fighting me - WHY ARE YOU MAKING ME KILL YOU?! I AM NOT YOUR ENEMY!"_

The SIGMA shook her head, "_no…"_ She croaked, hand cradling her injured stomach, "_you're just a drone… Blindly following orders."_ She slowly lifted her head, her pale blue eyes locking onto the soulless red plates of John's helmet.

"_Don't do it."_ John could see her muscles tensing and her face settling into a scowl, she was going to try and attack, to provoke him into killing her. "_Surrender, I can help you."_ He didn't know what was wrong with her, why she was fighting him, but if she tried to attack him again, he wouldn't hesitate to incinerate her, and they both knew this.

"_All I'll tell you… Is that it's you… You and your generation. You _aren't _SIGMAs. I didn't believe him, I thought he was lying… A government that considers this kind of cruel decision is not one that is fit to rule. SIGMAs who do not even know what they are have no right to defend."_ Without further delay, she jumped forwards.

John, in a fraction of a second, clenched the gelatinous grip of the rifle, a fist-sized beam of plasma burst out from the barrel and collided with her exposed head. In less than a second, the heat stunned her into falling to the ground, hands covering her plasma-covered face as it ate away at her skin. John didn't let up, and in ten seconds, burned his way through her nanotube-reinforced skull and turned her brain to ash and smoldering meat.

John slowly lowered the weapon, taking just a few seconds to take in the dead augmented warrior before him. It hadn't really clicked for the child-soldier until right now that he had actually been fighting a _SIGMA!_ More shocking was that he'd _won!_ This was a true SIGMA One, and despite how thoroughly trashed it was, she had the Titan armor, the reflexes, the strength, the skill and the tenacity to prove it, not to mention the beating she gave him. It wasn't a Rebel knock-off, it was an honest-to-god SIGMA One, and he'd killed her.

Unfortunately for him, his victory was not without cost. "Cassidy. Status report," he said with a clenched jaw.

"_John, you can't take another fight like that, not so soon after waking up from augment surgery." _Cassidy instantly responded, "_her knife shocked with fifty milliamps, those attacks fried some of your nanites and they formed three clots - your wounds won't heal fast until the rest of the nanites fix these internal injuries. You're incredibly lucky you haven't stopped breathing, but your heart is fibrillating, and its everything your nanites can do to try and force it to coordinate and keep it from killing you. You're suffering from shock and light-moderate blood-loss, at least a quarter of your body is bruised or, you have severe whiplash, and multiple pulled muscles and lacerations."_

John nodded, "okay." He said, swallowing some blood and shaking his head; he turned back to the armory, "Cassidy, get in touch with the Admiral and tell him to start sending down the evac shuttles. Also tell him that the enemy has SIGMA Operatives, two confirmed KIA and one MIA. Request a -" His motion tracker lit up with, showing a sea of red behind him. He whipped around saw outside a sea of bodies, loosely garbed in patchwork red and blue clothing, all two meters and with the builds of olympic athletes.

"_John, what are -"_

"Call in a HoG strike, low yield! This base needs to be wiped from the planet!" John didn't like assuming things, but with an abundance of alien tech on this base, it wasn't a stretch to think that other Rebel bases on the planet had similar tech, and his eyes didn't lie - every one of the armed new arrivals looked exactly the same, down to the blue eyes and surgical scars. If these aliens had access to ionized plasma weapons - which in and of itself was eons beyond anything the Alliance could cook up these days - it too wasn't a stretch to think that they were advanced in other areas of science as well, medical sciences included. Given how dug in the Rebels were on this planet, that meant they'd been here for a while, and had likely found a treasure trove of alien technology, and had time to study and reverse-engineer it all.

So, while it was something of a stretch, John would defend to the death that he was facing an army of cloned SIGMAs, which was anyone's worst nightmare. An unending clone of nigh-undefeatable soldiers with no self-preservation instinct would quite literally turn any battle on its head. John did consider that he would fare much better against these people - as they had no armor or apparent protection to speak of - but he did _not_ want to test his skills so thoroughly.

_I need carry a kiloton grenade, for situations exactly like this._ John thought, as he sprinted back to the armory, taking fire from the clones as he did.

He took the route he'd made during his fight with the traitor SIGMA, and was back with the Marines in an instant. There were very few rebels left, and John's appearance finally inspired them to cut their losses and run for their lives, John let them, now wasn't the time to fight, now was the time to retreat for all of their worth.

"_Marines, on me! We've got to get out of here!"_ He called out into the short-wave, he didn't care who was listening. "_Cassidy, get me a route out of here that will keep me away from the enemy!"_ He charged into the armory and took point, the Marines followed him as he took the back way out, Cassidy having learned from his earlier stunts and showing him what was truly the most direct route - a straight line outward. Half of the walls were already broken, so neither he nor the Marines had to pause, but the final few John had to smash through, to light protest from Cassidy, who needlessly reminded John that, if he pushed himself any further, with the injuries the SIGMA had inflicted, he could be looking at permanent damage or death.

John and the newly deceased SIGMA's destructive actions had a partially intended side-effect, which John took full advantage of the moment all of the Marines were out of harm's way. The structural integrity of the building was severely weakened, it was still sound, but a strong enough explosion could level the whole place, and bury everyone - such as the clones rushing inside to give chase - inside. John ripped a grenade from his vest, pulled the pin, and hurled it as hard as he could. His strength didn't fail him, and just as its timer hit zero, it reached the remaining plasma rifles in the armory and exploded. The resultant detonation was so heavy and so destructive that it shook the very ground beneath their feet, killing everyone in the armory, and destroying the building itself, burying everyone else.

John didn't wait to see the fruits of his labors, he looked to the east and saw the path Cassidy laid out for him - it led him to a hole that had been carved into the Rebels' defences hours ago. The clones were to the west, and were still advancing - they didn't even care about their fallen allies.

_Not good. _Thought the SIGMA, "_fall back!"_ He shouted, turning and firing at the advancing hordes as the Marines stormed past him.

A maskless Quarian in a forest-green suit stopped next to him, "what are we looking for?!" He demanded, out-of-breath.

Before John could speak, down from orbit came three massive troop-transport shuttles. Their fire-trails lit up the afternoon sky with bright plumes of smoke as they rocketed through the air, towards the evac-point, a few air-and-space fighters escorting them to their destination.

"Wherever those things landed! I'll be right behind you!" John responded, shoving the Quarian away to give him a bit of motivation. "Now _RUN!"_ Some of the clones were taking cover to shoot at the SIGMA II and his Quarian compatriot, while others were picking up speed and rushing the two. "MOVE!" John couldn't maintain this position, but he couldn't just blast past the Quarian, so he took a third option and hauled the Quarian onto his shoulders in a fireman's-carry. Scant second passed as John sprinted as fast as he could towards the holes in the Rebel base's fortifications, he dropped the Quarian with little fanfare and pointed in the direction of Cassidy's E-Beacon. "Just keep going that way! You'll find what you're looking for!"

"_And what about you?!"_ The stubborn Quarian demanded, as he hauled himself to his feet.

"I'll buy you as much time as I can, now move! That's an order!" John roared, ripping the plasma rifle and his own rifle from his back and shouldering both, it might be something of a stupid tactic, but John needed as much firepower as he could bring to bear, and he was strong enough to control an assault rifle's recoil, single-handedly, and was skilled enough to aim it precisely with his off-hand. It was out of necessity that the plasma rifle was in his strong hand, he needed to aim that one manually, whereas the assault rifle was synced with his HUD and could more or less be aimed haphazardly.

The 'V' shaped hole in the massive walls the rebels had surrounded their base with served as John's bottleneck. This exit was the only way the clones could get out without taking a massive detour, and as such, they couldn't run through it and dodge John's weaponsfire. As John fought against these 'men' with all of his might, he mentally took down everything he could learn about them, the most important of which being that they seemed stupid. They advanced and fought with a surprising amount of skill, but they were dumb, they acted like drones, as if they knew they were clones and knew that if one of them fell, two could replace him. They didn't have shields or any kind of protective armor, just patchwork red and blue clothing, and they went down very easily when they were hit by either of John's two weapons. Their own weapons were paltry compared to John's own, they jammed and misfired frequently, but they spat lead at higher velocities and faster rates than most standard-issue models, which meant that John's shields were stressed further and faster whenever they got their shots off on him.

John's conclusions slowly began to form as he applied any of the admittedly bad intel to the situation. This base was more likely to be the location of the cloning facilities than the alien armory, given the fact that there were more clones than there were plasma weapons, and given how drone-like they were and how marginally effective they were in combat, their training didn't come from brain or memory augmentations, but rather from muscle memory donated from the base - who himself was most likely a SIGMA, which explained the surgical scars on the clones' bodies, as no one knew augmentation procedures like SIGMAs did.

John crouched down to one knee and shoved his assault rifle in the crook of his left leg as he fired with the plasma rifle in his right hand. With his left hand, blindingly fast, John ejected the magazine from the Human weapon, tossed it aside, dove into his tactical vest, retrieved a new magazine, slapped it inside, and had a round chambered and the weapon back in hand and ready to be fired.

"_Cassidy, where is that HOG Strike?!"_

"_The Admiral's giving me a hard time!" _It responded, "_But I have an idea, I'm speaking to Captain Shepard of the - Oh no…"_

"What?" John growled, annoyed to no end by the AI's tendency to speak as if she had the time to do so. He crouched behind his cover from a sudden wall of gunfire, waiting for his shields to recover so he could slow the clones' advance again.

"_SIGMA!"_ One of the Marines cried into the radio; with the roar of gunfire and the screams of men in pain, John couldn't tell if it was a Human or a Quarian.

"What?!" John broke cover and fired wildly at the approaching horde, they slowed down but didn't stop - for all of their faults, they were learning, case in point being them using their sheer force of numbers and the corpses of their dead as meat shields.

"_We found the other guy!"_ Shouted the Marine on the comm, just as John heard a distant sonic-boom, one he instantly recognized as the sounds of a jet breaking the sound barrier.

John whipped around and saw one of the troop transport shuttles rocketing back towards the sky, a missile following it, doggedly overcoming all of its evasive maneuvers and breeching its defenses. John knew what would happen before it actually occurred - modern anti-air missiles were two stage detonators, the first detonation was just powerful enough to shatter the vessel's shields, the second was what actually took the ship down. The shuttle's left engine exploded and it began spiralling out of control - John sprinted away the moment it became apparent that it was hurtling towards him. He predicted it would hit the hole in the fortifications, and if it didn't seal it up, it would at least delay the clones for a while, giving him enough time to sprint towards the evac-point.

John set his jaw in determination, as he sprinted towards the evac-point. He had another fight ahead of him, but with how his body was holding up after the last one, he wasn't certain if he could properly win this one. He would need a game changer, but the only one he had could kill him - he had been refraining from going down this route specifically because he didn't know what he would find at the end of the road. His augmentations had changed everything about him, and while he was comfortable enough in his body to force himself to start moving and fighting, there was just one thing he didn't want to use. Unfortunately for John, he no longer had the luxury of choice, he had a mission to complete, and he had a SIGMA he had to defeat. Conventional melee combat wasn't an option, but he had one unconventional weapon that he knew would be outside of the SIGMA's A-S-Warfare plans.

As he thundered across the ground, his feet leaving visible divots in the dirt, he gave his AI his solemn order, "_Cassidy, activate my biotic amps."_

* * *

><p><em>AN:_

_So, I think I've said this before, but If I haven't, right now, after that fight, is the best time to get this off of my chest - my dream, the story I've always wanted to fight, is a sci-fi/fantasy series that essentially reads like the literary equivalent to Dragonball Z. Impossibly powerful individuals fighting even stronger opponents, with the scale just growing and growing and growing with every confrontation. From small bouts that end up leveling a house or two, to titanic duels that smash cities, alter the environment, and leave scars across continents, so large that they are visible from space. Drawing from sources such as Metal Gear's fantastic melee fights, the Matrix, anything by Monty Oum, and, of course, Dragonball, I've always been the biggest fan of what essentially equated to supermen cutting loose, and what happens when they do._

_And, unfortunately, there is a reason I haven't been able to do that with the WarVerse - which, as you all may recall, I've described as being essentially a proving grounds for concepts from my own stories. _

_You see, the one and only thing about the WarVerse that has killed me with every word is what I did to perform this experiment - I took my universe and stripped away all of its fantasy elements, inadvertently creating a Halo rip, but explaining_ that_ story __again isn't not the point of this A/N. What this strip did was essentially limit my action sequences to gun battles which, while fun, __just aren't that much fun to write. There are only so many ways to write 'he aimed his gun and he killed him', but there are countless ways to write... Well, any kind of melee confrontation, really, though my favorite is indeed a good-ol'-fashioned fist fight. The only problem is, that doesn't really happen in modern warfare - not that often, anyways. And in fictitious warfare stories, whenever it _does_ happen, it ends up feeling forced, or rushed, and no one ever really has any time or patience to have fun with it.  
><em>_That being said, now that John's up and at 'em, and I've begun to establish Jorell as more of an engineer as opposed to a fighter, I'm hoping to use them [and the third supporting protagonist] and their skill-sets as a way to spice up the action in the upcoming battles._

_This chapter (and, you guessed it, the one coming up) was my first **real** practice writing a fight that managed to weave itself believably into the setting. They didn't simply forsake their ranged weapons, they simply weren't in any position to use them, and were fighting to regain that position, whilst simultaneously trying to keep their opponent from also regaining that position. _

_I tried - oh boy did I try - to make it as realistic as I could, to try and make certain the fantastical inspirations were cleverly hidden or removed entirely.  
>Of course, I say that, and I made a rather blatant use of the 'Shoot the Bullet' trope, but I justify that both with the skill I've shown the SIGMAs to possess, and with the Rule of Cool trope. I mean... Really, my favorite part in Screwattack's DeadpoolDeathstroke fight was at the beginning, when they shot eachother with uzis, and both of them shot the spray of bullets out of the air. It was freakin' awesome!_

_I had, and still have, so many other ideas to put in for this fight alone. The chapter itself was done, from a drafting/editing standpoint, several months ago, but I've been adding and taking away from it so much and so often that the original 8 or 9 thousand word chapter turned into a 13K monstrosity. I literally had to stop myself from going any further, for fear that it would have dragged on too long. (Kind of like this Author's Note! Hahaha.)  
><em>

_But I digress._

_The point of this A/N is to explain why, after thirty four chapters and barely a third of the story, I suddenly pulled an extended fist-fight scene out of nowhere, when typically those are reserved for the end. Obviously - grudgingly - due to the setting, this won't be a common occurrence; I could go into detail as to why melee fights work in some settings and not others, but I don't want to ramble, and I've said it before, and I'll say it again - I could go on forever about these things. _

_So, that out of the way, here's where you get a little bit of bad news. It'll only last about a week or two, but the story's going to take a brief break. For multiple reasons (none of which have to do with Fallout 4 coming out in two days, mind you.), but the primary ones being that I've been trying to edge my way into an EMT class, and haven't gotten any word as to when it will start other than 'soon' or 'we don't know yet'. I've got to get in touch with my LT and figure out what the deal is._

_I've also got some BS at work I've got to deal with. Nothing job-threatening, but a lot of the people that essentially glue the place together are preparing to leave or move on, and with the ways the tides are turning, the place is getting ready to go downhill faster than... Er... I dunno, faster than the internet crashed when they released those new Star Wars trailers.  
>So, I've got to deal with that and make sure they don't think I'm one of the reasons the place is starting to go down the tubes, and I've got to start preparing contingencies in case I'm right and the place goes to shit like I think it will. <em>

_And... Okay, fine, Fallout 4 is coming out on Tuesday, and I'm pretty damn excited.  
>Though, significantly less so than I used to be. We seem to have something of a track record, this year, with big-name games failing to live up not to the hype, but to what they described themselves to be. Most recent example being Halo 5's ads claiming it to be some epic AWOL Masterchief vs Locke action, when it was really just a repeat of the scene in Halo 4, where the captain of the Infinity tried to have John arrested so they could go home and ignore the big bad, but you can check out my profile for my full rant on that.<em>

_Now, to extend a little bit on the Hiatus, I do have an idea about it that I might be willing to dedicate to. Given that the first third of the story will be wrapping up soon, I think I might keep releasing as usual up until that point, and then cut off for a week or two after that - that way, technically, you've been told a whole story, and are just waiting for the next part to begin, as opposed to being left on an ominous cliffhanger with an even more ominous release date for the resolution... But I don't know if I can feasibly do that right now. _

_My best advice would be to follow me on twitter -at-ProfFartBurger, I'm constantly over there, posting mini updates and chatting with fans. _

_'Till next time, folks!_

_-PFB_


	39. Chapter 36

_Chapter 36_

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><p>"<em>He fought the darkness, the darkness won."<em>

—_**Dr. Light, Unrest in the House of Light by The Protomen**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>July 2220<strong>_

* * *

><p>The tale of David and Goliath was bullshit. There was no defeating an insurmountable enemy, there was no standing firm in the face of impossible odds, and worst of all - there was no running. The SIGMAs prided themselves on only ever leaving survivors if they were ordered, and this was a situation in which leaving survivors was the furthest possible thing from the surviving SIGMA's mind. Jorell'Sahn could tell just by looking at the way the monster fought - there was no machine-like efficiency in his movements, no cold, calculated skill, just a sheer, horrifying brutality. He didn't care about finishing his mission in a timely manner, he was angry and he needed to vent.<p>

The SIGMA wore a heavily modified version of his battle armor, Jorell didn't know what all the monster of a man had done to it, but it was the patch-jobs, mismatched plates, and small strips of duct tape that gave it the look of having seen no professional hand in years. The SIGMA had a rifle on its back and a pistol on its hip, but it used neither of those things, instead it was angrily beating and ripping apart anyone within arm's length. Its method of killing, the violent maelstrom of physical blows, showcased an anger the likes of which none of the Marines could find any experience even remotely close to being considered comparable. It completely forgoed its ranged weapons simply because it wanted to revel in the feeling of physically tearing apart the Marines responsible for destroying decades of work, and the worst part was that it was winning.

Wild gunfire, ringing plasma blasts, the screams of men in pain, the death-cries of those who saw their chests cave in or their limbs be ripped from their bodies, even the gurgles of those who were simply hit so hard that their bones and organs nearly liquified and their bodies shut down, it all permeated the grassy, flaming clearing they were all fighting in. Nothing the Marines did phased this monster - their only chance, the Marines with the Painter weapons, were prioritized and beaten to death before everyone else. Regular gunfire did little other than stun the monster of war, the only way to actually damage the man with ballistic weaponry was to hit him with a shotgun at point-blank range, but Jorell had had his skull get cracked and multiple ribs get broken when he tried closing in on the man and attempting such a tactic. The SIGMA was outnumbered at least thirty to one, and despite all logic, he was winning.

Jorell watched, wheezing as he laboriously crawled towards a nearby Marine's corpse, as three men tried rushing the SIGMA from multiple angles, two hammering him with their weapons and one trying to leap onto his back and distract him, even if only for a moment. The SIGMA shielded his face from gunfire in the crook of his arm, the bullets impacting first his shields with the noise of static discharge, and then hitting his armor plates with the loud metal on metal pings, as he braced his legs behind him, waiting for his opportunity to strike. Jorell risked a glance over at the corpse he was crawling towards, its chest burst outwards from a savage knife-hand jab, blood leaking outwards. He forced another arm in front of the other and dug his feet into the ground, laboring onwards as the battle raged on.

The Marine who had come up from behind the SIGMA leapt upwards and wrapped one arm around the SIGMA's throat, whilst he savagely stabbed at the SIGMA's neck with the knife in his strong hand, managing to draw a little blood before the SIGMA reached up with both hands, grabbed the Marine by his uniform, and ripped him off of his back. The augmented monster bodily hauled the mortal Marine over his back, the Marine screaming as his allies' gunfire briefly raked his back in those precious seconds before they realized what was happening and ceased fire.

The SIGMA, the moment they ceased firing upon them, whirled around a quick circle and tossed the fully armored human as easily as he would toss a pillow, the dead Marine colliding with another, who let loose a pained shout. The unharmed Marine started backpedalling, forcing himself not to take his eyes off of his opponent as he reloaded his rifle and kept unloading into the unflinching monster above him. The SIGMA tanked the automatic gunfire, shrugging it off as it impacted his armor plating harmlessly, leading the Quarian to wonder what even could kill it in the first place.

"_Dosdon…"_ Groaned the Quarian, as the SIGMA reached the Marine, who tried to smash the stock of his gun into the SIGMA's face, "_pleeeease tell me you're still kicking."_ The SIGMA physically reacted to the blow, staggering a few steps as he turned his face away from a dumbfounded Marine but slowly turned his head to face him, showing the man that the monster was less than affected by the meagre attempt at a physical assault - he was _annoyed._

"_Reporting."_ Groaned the sniper, over the sound of twigs and branches snapping and groaning.

"_What the fuck are you doing, climbing a -"_ Jorell grunted, "_never goddamn mind… How good a shot are you?" _

"_Haven't we gone over -" _The Sniper interrupted himself with a grunt, "_I'm a washed out SIGMA with ocular augments… How good of a shot do you need?" _There was another round of gunfire and the loud yells of a Marine who got kicked in the chest and sent flying out of the clearing, followed by the wet, bodily smack of him impacting a tree, and the snap of his spine upon impact.

"_Concussive rounds… They don't pierce, they punch. I need you to… Make a chink in that monster's armor…"_ Jorell groaned painfully as he finally reached the body and grabbed at the grenades hanging off of the man's tactical vest.

The SIGMA slowly turned to face his next opponent, haphazardly tossing away the arm he had ripped off of the marine he'd kicked away. The other two Marines were scrambling to their feet, one wildly screaming and firing at the SIGMA with his pistol, barely managing to land any hits and even then, they only hit his armor, itself designed specifically to defend against modern ammunition, to say nothing of the Mass Effect rounds. None of these men knew any of the weaknesses in the SIGMA's armor, they had been taught through exposure that there were none to begin with, so their fight was less one of determination, and more of desperation. Without the Painter's weapons, the man was all but invulnerable, so Jorell prayed that his plan would work. _All_ they needed was just a few seconds - even _one_ would suffice - to provide a window of opportunity for the surviving Marines to make a run for those weapons.

_It has to work…_ Jorell ripped the grenade from the vest, and pressed the primer button. _It has to. They can't have sacrificed their lives for ancestors-damned nothing! _He tossed it into the air as hard as he could, not even aware of where the sniper was in relation to the SIGMA, simply praying, to the Human god, to his Quarian ancestors, to anyone who would listen. Fortunately for the Quarian, _someone_ listened, because a thunderclap from the treeline echoed out and a nonlethal concussive round sailed forth, smacking into the grenade and flinging it directly at the SIGMA.

To Jorell's horror, just as the grenade got within range, and the Marines got their signal to make their run for the plasma weapons, the SIGMA whipped around and caught the grenade as if it were a baseball. The entire forest, all of the fire, all of the dying men, and even all of the gunfire that had been suppressing the SIGMA, it all silenced as the grenade nestled itself in the hand of the SIGMA, who turned to the sprinting Marines and tossed the grenade in one uninterrupted motion. The grenade exploded in mid-air, shredding several of the marines as the shrapnel and the fire reached them, though as a testament to their will - or their desperation - the ones who weren't killed outright in the blast kept running, limping, or tearing at the ground to try and get to the Painter guns.

The SIGMA, in response, ran for the Marines as well, but stumbled when the joint of his left leg was shot by the sniper. The stumbling motion opened him up to another shot, which hit his head, causing a visible recoil, and showing Jorell that of their ballistic weapons, the only ones with the force required to actually cause him any pause were point blank shotgun blasts, and now too Dosdon's sniper rounds - both of which were in short supply, meaning all of their hope relied upon the plasma weapons haphazardly dropped around a small pile of corpses.

The SIGMA, befitting his skill, reacted almost immediately to this newfound addition, cursing himself for not confirming the kill of the washout. Not many people could survive a full-force kick to the chest and an uppercut to the jaw, but apparently a washed out SIGMA was tenacious enough to not only survive, but make an impossible shot on top of it. When he hit the ground, he rolled into the momentum of the impact of the sniper's round, and when he got back to his feet, his rifle was in his hands, and his finger was on the trigger of its underbarrel grenade launcher. With the sound of air being pushed out of a tube, however muted it was by the battle raging around him, he launched a grenade through the air, and leapt to the side to avoid his opponent's response. His opponent, however, missed _this_ impossible shot and had to drop out of his tree and onto his broken body in order to dodge the oncoming grenade.

With a pained howl, the sniper tried to get to his feet, or even back onto his chest, and to a position where he could fire his rifle again, but the SIGMA was on the move before he had even gotten halfway to the ground, barreling back towards the Marines, who were scrambling for the egg-shaped weapons. Jorell, however, now on his knees, chucked another grenade at the SIGMA, who batted the grenade out of the way and reared his fist back to launch a savage punch at the nearest Marine, the grenade exploding harmlessly behind him.

Full tilt, nothing held back, a punch from a SIGMA was horrifying to behold, even as Jorell struggled to grab and prime another grenade. The SIGMA put everything he had into the punch, his entire body twisting as his fist flew so fast that the air hummed behind him. Starting at the shoulder, working its way down to his chest and then his hips, the SIGMA's entire body turned into the punch. His fist slammed into the terrified face of an unfortunate Marine, who had almost no time at all to realize that the SIGMA's fist was nearly as big as his entire head. For a millisecond, nothing happened, but slowly the augmented monster's fist overcame the comparably nonexistent defenses of the human marine's skull and flesh.

First, the man's skull started cracking, beginning in a muted fashion but soon becoming audible even to Jorell. It caved in to the point that it looked as if the marine's head was absorbing the SIGMA's fist like a sack of putty. Soon, the strength of the SIGMA's fist won out over the elasticity and durability of the marine's face, and the skin started tearing apart, blood and bits of bone, skin, and muscle flying into the air as they tore off of his face. The horrible squishing sound of the man's flesh being flattened and torn apart was lost over the frightened yells of the marine's allies and the panicked dives and scrambles for the alien weaponry. In less than three seconds, the marine's head exploded into a shower of blood, bone and muscle, the SIGMA's fist destroying it and being covered in its gore. The Marine was dead before the pain even registered to his pulverized brain.

The Marine's corpse fell to the ground with a wet smack, and the SIGMA didn't even pause as he kept dashing forward, dropping low to the ground and sweeping the legs of the Marines out from underneath them, effectively toppling a group of seven men in half as many seconds. The SIGMA slowly stood to his feet, staring at the groaning Marines, all of whom were struggling just to squirm and convulse in pain, let alone actually try and attempt to get back up again.

Teeth gritting in pain, Jorell himself was struggling back to his feet - the vest was out of grenades, and he didn't know what to do other than grabbing his shotgun and trying to fight. His groan turned into a struggling shout as he tried to stand up, but he fell down and onto the corpse after several seconds of struggle, falling onto the corpse with a grunt. He clenched his jaw and shut his eyes tight, trying to fight through the pain, but when he opened his eyes, he saw something magical. It wasn't a missile launcher, but he'd be damned if it wasn't comparably magical - one single vial of cell fluid. Where the Marine got it, despite not being a medic, didn't even matter at this point, he wasn't complaining.

_Okay… I'm already swimming in antibiotics and painkillers, and I'm so hurt that none of it's working… So I shoot up with a stim, I get back to fighting, if only for a minue before he punches a hole in my chest… Or, option two, I pray that other SIGMA - fuck it._ The cell fluid worked in stages, depending on how injured he was dictated how well it tried to heal him, and given how badly a shape he was in, it would go for the most drastic, equilibrium. It wouldn't heal any of his surface wounds, instead going for setting his bones and trying to undo any internal damage. It was temporary, and would probably only last him one hit, two if he was lucky, but he had to do it.

The Quarian reached forward and grabbed the needle, yanking the bright blue container and securing it to one of the ports on his suit as he heard the frantic shouts of his allies and the loud ringing noise of plasmafire. He felt the cell fluid enter his body like a shot of ice-cold water, and he let out a loud bark of pain as he felt the nanomachines first scan his body to ascertain what species it was dealing with, and then he felt almost all of them converge on his torso as they grabbed his broken ribs and forcibly set them back into place, and then began accelerating his cell division so as to heal his organs. He forced himself onto his feet as the cell-fluid began flooding his system with even more painkillers, all the while ignoring an audible warning from his suit that he couldn't take any more drugs without risking his life in the process.

Jorell heard grunts and groans of pain in his comm, and a moment later, Dosdon's voice floated into his ears. "_I can see you getting up, Jorell… I'm not doing good, but I can get you your _one _shot... "_ He said, as Jorell looked over to the SIGMA, who was defending himself from a plasma strike by dodging around the beam and using a corpse to absorb the errant shots, almost looking like he was dancing around the beam and weaving in and out of the men trying to kill him. "_All you've got to do is stun him... "_ He groaned and Jorell heard a sick snapping noise, "_buy the Painter guys just one second… That's all they need."_ The sound of rustling leaves and metallic clicking floated through the comm, and Jorell started forcing his legs to move, at a slow stumble at first, but soon progressing to an all-or-nothing sprint, as he ripped his shotgun from the magnetic clamps on his back. "_When I fire, you shoot and you don't stop shooting! This is my last bullet, so make it count Marine!" _Barely a second later, a thunderous clap echoed throughout the clearing, temporarily drowning out the sounds of fire and plasma, and everything happened at once.

Jorell closed the last few meters between him and the SIGMA, he dropped to his knees and slid across the ground, taking aim with his shotgun and firing at the SIGMA's chest, as his head snapped back from impact with the sniper round. Jorell fired the shotgun and it roared in its hands, bucking up and falling back down as Jorell slid the forestock. The pellets slammed into the SIGMA's side, causing him to stumble. Jorell fired again, as he slid to a halt and the Marines with the plasma weapons ceased their fire to regroup. The BB's slammed into the SIGMA's leg, drawing some blood and sending him to his knee. Jorell slid the forestock again, and the chunky, metallic clicking sound told him that there was only one round left in the weapon. The last shot slammed into the SIGMA's visor, just as he turned his head to leer at Jorell. The force of the impact buried several BB's into the man's glass visor, and snapped his head back away from Jorell, where it was then met by a savage right cross from the only other SIGMA on the planet. The impact of the blow sent out a wave of deep violet energy, and resounded with a loud metallic clang, like a hammer on an anvil, and the SIGMA's head recoiled violently, as he finally fell to the ground.

The other SIGMA, with the numbers _2-15_ emblazoned on the combat harness over his chest, straightened up. He was wreathed in a fiery cloak of violet fire, his gas mask-helmet's eyes glowed a bright, menacing red as he slowly lifted his gaze from the SIGMA to the Marines, none of whom knew whether they should be shooting, or running.

"Fall back." Said the SIGMA, as he lowered his gaze, the other SIGMA slowly rousing to his feet, so slowly in comparison to his earlier attacks and movements that everyone present knew in the back of their minds that it was deliberate.

Jorell scrambled to his feet, grabbing the arm of a close by Marine and hauling him to his feet, as the other Marines did the same for their injured comrades. As the enemy SIGMA rose to meet the new SIGMA, the Marines vacated the battleground.

* * *

><p>The SIGMAs, one One, one Two, stood solitary mere meters away from eachother. The man in power armor and the boy in the muscle suit, each staring into the dehumanizing masks of their opponent. John S2-15 wore a look of pallid fury, and the SIGMA with <em>1-61 <em>painted across his dark chestplate in old, faded, chipped white paint merely wore one of disappointment. Silence ruled the air between the two, as they communicated so much through the mere act of staring at each other, immobile.

John's shoulders were squared, his fists lightly clenched, his head ever so slightly tilted down, his right leg just barely placed behind his left, his foot braced against the ground. 2-15's biotic aura radiated off of him with a silent violet blaze and his chest visibly inflated and compressed with every livid breath, his weapons were loaded, with his plasma rifle placed just an inch higher on his back than his ballistic rifle, magnetically clamped to the right side of his back as opposed to his left, his knife secured in the sheathe hooked onto the harness on his chest.

1-61 held himself with his shoulders sagged, his hands open and limp, his back slouched and his neck hanging just slightly forward. His head was bowed, but his eyes and his visor still made contact with John's. 1-61's armor bore the scars of a long and endless war, his weapons were loaded but crusted with the blood of his enemies and scarred with the flashes of his muzzle. His legs were shoulder-width apart but were merely braced against the ground, simply supporting him and his tremendous in-armor weight. His visor was cracked in places and the metallic mouth was heavily dented in the shape of the II's fist. His breaths were even, deep and slow, almost sounding like a sigh with every exhale.

Finally, the silence between the two was broken by the One. "_You're a biotic."_ The One said, almost conversationally, his voice deep and slightly garbled by the damaged speakers on his helmet.

"_Why?!"_ John demanded of the man.

"_Why are you biotic?"_

"_Why are you fighting me?"_ John asked in a tone that approached pleading.

"_You're a Two, aren't you? Oh kid… There is so much for you to learn…"_ 1-61 sighed, "_so much they hid from you. This? This isn't me fighting you. This isn't even me fighting the Alliance. It is me fighting the anti-66'ers. I am the king, waiting to be checked. You are the knight, begging to be placed. They are the pawns, who always go first."_ He waved to the marines moving to the forest's edge, slowly taking a few steps away from John as he spoke.

"_This is not chess, it is war."_ John stated, watching as the SIGMA paced.

"_What is war but the language of opposing forces?"_ The SIGMA asked, slowing his pace to a halt, now six and a half meters from the II. "_You know nothing of what you speak, because you know not the history behind it, and those who do not know and learn from history are doomed to repeat it. Tell me - why do the SIGMAs exist?"_

John squinted at the man, "_to protect mankind."_ No three words were more burned into John's soul than the three just uttered.

"_And have you ever considered - has it even been mentioned to your kind - what happens if the enemy humanity faces is itself? You Twos face the same problem the Board faces, you see the past as this golden age of perfection and you place humanity on a pedestal, looking to it as an abstract ideal, not a true concept. The Ones, however, do not face this problem as we instead separate ourselves from mankind and see it as it is: A structure waiting to collapse under its own weight, an ideal that cannot be realized, a program that must be restarted periodically so as to facilitate further growth."_ The SIGMA gesticulated with his hands as he spoke, driving home his conviction. "_Jason McGraw saw a problem inherent in human society, a problem that would only grow as he brought us to the interstellar stage. The universe is an incomprehensibly large place, and has innumerable threats, but none so big as the one we pose to ourselves._

"_Obviously, the first threat needs no explanation to a man such as you. You as well as I and as well as anyone else know how enormous our universe is, and every day we discover something new that redefines our understanding of it, every day we see something that we believed once impossible… Every day we realize once again the dangers of the enormity of our universe. McGraw knew that these dangers would one day look to us, that we would one day have to face these threats, or perish._

"_The second threat is the one you are blind to. It is arguably the reason we exist in the first place. McGraw knew that it would only be a matter of time before we were used less for defense against the foreign, and more for clandestine actions and eventual military force against the domestic. It wasn't a possibility, it was an inevitability. He knew that the system was temporary at best - that eventually it would become corrupt, or would become too powerful and arrogant, or it would begin to die, but no matter the scenario, he knew that eventually the system the UN created would attempt to use its power unlawfully. Small sacrifices here and there, slowly building up to a tyrannical rule. A few small, seemingly insignificant freedoms sacrificed over a long period of time, towards the idea of peace and safety, until it was too late and the ideal that the system was founded upon was buried underneath the power fantasies of those who ruled it. A force so powerful that nothing could stop it… But for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. There would have to exist a force completely parallel to the system, one capable of dismantling it and rebuilding it if need be._

"_So the senior McGraw created the SIGMAs, as a way to combat both threats. He wanted a breed of warrior capable of defending against all threats… Foreign, _and _domestic. A fighting force capable of staring death in the face, a breed of warrior so indomitable and resilient that death would blink first. A solitary sentinel willing to sacrifice its own humanity so it can find the dark things in the black corners, and force them into the light… But so too a secret police, whose secret was hidden in plain blue and black ink - where no one in history would think to look, save for those few whose common sense truly is. In our charter, he wrote Protocol Sixty Six, specifically for the scenario in which our ruling body is no longer fit to rule… In which the ideal all humans unconsciously strive towards is no longer the ideal our leaders bring us towards._

"_Should any SIGMA decide the incumbent ruling government of mankind is unworthy of serving the common man, that SIGMA is therefore obligated, honor-bound, and most importantly granted the authority, to formally secede from said government and work to dismantle it."_ The One said, with a deep exhale, as if forcing his mind to stay in the present, as opposed to drifting off to the past.

Damningly, John remained silent.

The One continued, "_strictly speaking, the SIGMAs as an institute are already separate from the incumbent government. Our own faction, our own government, our own country, our own people, and, by virtue of technicality, our own species. But we have an agreement of sorts with the Alliance - with the system. We serve it as long as its interests align with ours. We are not one in the same, but merely two entities walking the same path. Should the incumbent government deviate from that path, Sixty Six allows us to formally, and legally, set them back on that path."_ He shook his head, "_it is every SIGMA's nightmare to have to call Sixty Six, for the chaos it implies will follow. Civil War. Dismantling a working machine - no matter how rotten and corrupt - without turning it off will only cause more problems in the short term." _He paused, noticing the way John lifted his head and straightened his neck, and sighing as he realized what it indicated. "_I can see my time grows short, so I shall give you my best example."_ He lifted his hand, and then waved it towards John. "_You."_ John frowned at the man, and tilted his head downward to display his contempt. "_I once believed that though it wasn't truly righteous, the Alliance was _good… _But when we made first contact, we made all of the wrong decisions. _

"_Instead of sending a contact delegation out to the Citadel upon meeting the Quarians, Jason Whyte insisted we adopt a 'wait and see' stance. Instead of seeing the conflict with the Turians for what it was - a state in which no side had all of the facts - and waging a purely defensive war, he utilized our unexpected military might and superiority to crush them and bluff the galaxy into thinking we had much more power than we did. Instead of talking to the Citadel himself when we pushed the Turians from Earth, he sent a Quarian whom the Citadel despised, and an AI that the Citadel feared, and expected two negatives to form a positive. Instead of limiting our conflict to the Turians, he launched an unprecedented assault on the Citadel, bringing all races into our war. Instead of accepting the surrender of one alien leader, he displays to the galaxy our barbarism by convincing them that we destroyed a planet, and alludes to the fact that we could do the same to their Citadel. But perhaps worst of all is what he did after the fighting was finished. _

"_Humanity has shown that it is largely incapable of leading itself to peace and prosperity… The only true reason we have gotten this far is because we have had no other option - we __**HAVE **__to do it! To see if it can be __**DONE!**_ _But the Citadel? The Council? In the time since the Krogan Rebellions, there have been zero - absolutely zero - large scale interstellar wars, and an infinitesimally small amount of minor conflicts and skirmishes. They have a system that works, period. So when they give their apologies by offering to bring us into the fold, to introduce us into their system… Jason Whyte, speaking for all humans, spat in their face, and refused outright, preferring to rest in the arms of repeating history. Since then we have had several major wars with many hundreds of thousands of deaths, a full-scale insurrection, and a cold war… And before all of that - during a time of what one could call peace - they sanctioned the kidnapping of children to serve in their military._

"_It was the final straw. Myself, and the two others who have died today, we stood alone against the others, the only SIGMAs in history to call Sixty Six… The only SIGMAs in human history to stand against the incumbent government. We fight simply because we as a species are incapable of leading ourselves… We need time to learn, we need to see what it is like to truly know peace. The Citadel can provide that. It will be painful… But after those initial years of hardship, we will rise, like a phoenix from the ashes… Like a pawn reaching the other side and turning to a queen. Stronger than we have ever been before. Ready to face the universe itself."_ The man once again sighed and shook his head. "_But I can see it in your posture. My words have reached you, but you need time to digest them… Time you do not have on the battlefield. Time we have run out of… The calm has passed. The die has been cast. The final pawn sacrificed. If you truly want your answers, speak to Joseph Ducard, he has been here since the beginning, seconded only to John Doe…" _He stretched both arms and turned to face John, slowly turning to the side, one hand hovering above his pistol, and one twitching, ready to snatch his rifle off of his back. "_You and I both know that I will not go back, that I will not surrender, and that you cannot - in _your own _words… 'Help me'. There is only one way this ends… With a corpse to burn. So… Two Fifteen… Are you ready?"_

John stood there, six and a half meters from the SIGMA. His breath had calmed, his head no longer tilted, and his fists loose. They both knew the true meaning behind the man's words, it wasn't the question of whether or not John was ready to fight, it was whether or not John was ready to live with victory. The only way to win was to bring the SIGMA into a melee, they were both just too indomitable with ranged weapons. Fortunately for John, he had the exact tools needed to do such a task. With a simple, light sigh, that went unheard of in the backdrop of fire and recovering warriors, John gave a small, barely perceptible nod.

_Biotics are a gesture based art. Without your own ability to move, all you can do is alter your own mass. If you want to change the world around you need to MOVE!_ Were the words that the Asari instructor had branded into John's soul. _The most simple, and the most deadly, of these gestures is the singularity. Create your own gravity well, force your opponents to go where _you _want them! Control their movement and control the battle! _Were the words that flew through his mind as the violet flames that covered him grew in intensity. The II threw his right hand into the air, his fingers splayed open wide and his palm facing the SIGMA, who was in the middle of leaping to the side to avoid John's attack.

As 1-61's feet left the ground, a small black hole the size of his fist appeared directly in front of him, violet fire spraying out of it in all directions. For a split second, 1-61 was held aloft in the air as the singularity cancelled out gravity in the area its cold fire reached. The SIGMA realized what was happening the moment he felt himself get suspended in mid-air, but was unable to react as John yanked his fist backwards, raising his left hand as the right retreated past his shoulder. The singularity collapsed, going from the size of a fist to the size of a thumbnail in less than a millisecond. The sudden exponential growth in the singularity's gravitic pull ripped the One from his hovering position in the air and sent him flying towards John. In less a second the One reached the Two, but by then the One had adapted his strategy; the One swung his legs around so his feet faced the Two. When the One got within range, he opened up his legs and then scissor-kicked the Two's face, locking his legs onto his head and his neck. With a great heave, the One threw both hands over his head, reaching a sitting position on John's shoulders, which he used as leverage to throw a devastating straight at the Two's face, and rip the plasma rifle from his back before tossing it away.

As soon as his head recoiled from the punch and he felt his plasma rifle vanish, John jerked his upper body backwards and twisted it around, falling back towards the ground. With only a thought, his body flashed with dark blue flames as he increased his entire body's mass. When he and his opponent crashed onto the ground, the force of the impact blasted a massive, deep crater out of the dirt and stunned the One. In the center of the crater, John ripped the One's legs off of his neck, scrambled to his feet, and locked his right arm around 1-61's left leg. John dug his feet into the ground and with a great heave, lifted the One off of the ground, he kept his grip locked to the man's leg as he swung in a great circle. After one complete revolution, John released his grip and sent the man flying into the side of the crater, spraying dirt, dust and debris on impact.

_Heart rate 300 BPM, blood loss moderate, previous injuries still present… _Flew through John's mind as he read the information displayed on his suit's HUD.

"_John -"_

"_I know. What can you tell me about his suit?"_ John demanded of his AI, "_it is heavily modified."_

"_I don't know, he locked me out, I would need a hard connection."_

"_I can get you that."_ All he needed was open-handed contact with the man so he could let his own suit work its magic.

"_But John, your body - you can't keep -"_

"_Then we'll have to finish it fast." _It was time to experiment - he had to see what his absolute limit was and he had to see how much damage it could do. 1-61's greatest strength was his armor and the way it protected him, but just like his last opponent, if he could remove that armor, he would be able to compound on that weakness. He knew of one universal biotic attack that worked on all armor. He lifted his hand up and concentrated hard, pouring everything he had into the rapidly shifting and oscillating mass effect fields in his right hand. Just as the smoke from his last attack began to clear, the Warp attack was ready, and he thrust his hand forward, launching it towards the SIGMA, who came out from his crater literally guns-blazing.

As the biotic attack flew through the air, the SIGMA somersaulted out of the wall of the crater and had his rifle in his hands, bucking and barking as it blasted away at John's shields. The Two shoved his left hand forward and created a hardlight shield which defended against all of the ballistics, and just before the One saw the warp attack arcing down towards him, John sprinted forwards. The One tried to jump out of the way and dodge the attack, but was again unprepared for the raw biotic force the Two was capable of; the warp attack missed the SIGMA, but hit the ground next to him and detonated in a massive flare of blue fire and rippling gravitational waves. The One was covered in the shifting mass effect fields, and in less than a second he saw on his HUD that his mass was slowly being shaved away.

Before the One could attempt any of the tried and true methods to removing a biotic field, the Two was already next to him, his hardlight vanishing as his right hand swung forward and collided with the man's chest. The mass effect field surrounding and penetrating John's fist interacted violently with the warp field eating away at the One's armor - a textbook biotic detonation. The One hit the ground at the edge of their crater, digging into it. As his HUD informed him that his armor's integrity had gone past the point of vacuum-rating, he scowled deeply and dug his hands into the ground, pushing himself up and onto his feet. He'd been ready for a fight, and he had been ready for a fight with a biotic, but he hadn't expected anything like this, this kind of biotic strength was on the level of some Asari he had fought. The force this Two brought about was something no normal human - and, to some extent, no _SIGMA - _could even hope to bear.

_But…_ Thought 1-61, as time slowed down and he saw the Two launch himself forward at a dead-on sprint, leaving deep divots in the ground with every footfall. _Mass isn't the only way to increase force._ He braced his right foot behind him and lifted his right arm, fist clenched in a white-knuckled grip. He heard the light hiss and felt the metallic grinds of the suit's micro thrusters as they extended outwards and revealed themselves to the world. Rule number one when fighting hand to hand with a biotic was unavoidable - meet their increased mass with increased acceleration.

As the Two grew closer to the One, the thrusters started flaring with a constant burn at their highest possible output - the sounds of roaring engines suddenly filling the clearing and drowning out the flames in the background, as the small engines generated much more thrust than their small size would suggest. It was only through his own strength, and the locked servos on his power armor, that he kept his arm from blasting forward at speeds impossible to reach without assistance. With his strength, the strength of his armor, and the acceleration provided by the thrusters sticking out of his pauldron, the SIGMA estimated that he would generate enough force to equal out the biotic child soldier's.

As the Two closed in, the One thought it appropriate that two humans brought to the absolute limit of bio-technological development, would have a duel that brought itself to the absolute limit of reality. The Two was within one meter of the One, crouched down low and with his arm reared back, its mass so highly increased by his biotics that the light around it bent ever so slightly. When the Two got in range, he slammed his left foot into the ground, digging in deep as he pushed himself forward and swung his right fist in a wide upward arc. The moment the One perceived the Two beginning his swing, he unlocked the servos and stopped resisting, and less than a second later, their fists collided with each other.

The raw force the two brought to bear upon impact managed to shatter the already weakened armor plating covering the One's hand, and manage to severely damage the Two's gauntlets, shattering and splitting a few of the plates on his digits and knuckles, but the damage to them paled in comparison to what occurred upon impact. So strong were the two of them, so powerful were their attacks and so great their respective sides of Newton's equation for force, that the impact of their fists sent out a shockwave that managed to shatter the One's visor and and damage both of the the Two's face plates, leaving them both without HUDs. As the shockwave blasted outwards, it managed to topple some of the standing Marines, and send much of the flaming debris flying into the air, spreading their heat and their fire all around and creating a small, brief firestorm, effectively sealing the two augmented warriors off in their arena as various trees, bushes, and blades of grass all caught fire.

To the credit of each of the SIGMAs, neither of them took more than a millisecond to bask before they reengaged each other.

John grappled onto the One's deteriorated chestplate, "_NOW!"_ He yelled at Cassidy as he sent a fist flying at the SIGMA's exposed face.

1-61, his dark brown eyes blazing with a fire that wasn't a reflection of the flames encircling their clearing, caught John's fist with his left and slammed his free right into John's side, his micro-thrusters flaring with each swing, dramatically accelerating the impact and increasing the damage he was doing to John, who felt skin break and organs bruise with every blow. The sounds of metal striking muscle at jackhammer-like speeds filled the air, and after four brutal punches to the abdomen, the One grabbed the Two's harness and lifted with a deep bellow. John was swung over the One's head and slammed into the ground, the two of them nearly sliding back down into the crater as the impact destabilized the section of the wall they were standing on top of. John almost had the wind knocked out of him, and was forced to let go of the SIGMA's chestplate and roll out of the way when 1-61's thrusters flared brightly and his fist hit the area John's face had just been in.

Cassidy, using the momentary distraction granted to him by the SIGMA's fist being dug into the ground, spoke to John in a hurried tone. "_His suit's EVA thrusters have been modified to reach higher in-atmo velocities - it's crude, but he can match your biotics."_ John didn't bother ordering the AI to find him a weakness, the SIGMA wouldn't have let any flaw in his armor last that first modification. "_A lot of his systems were damaged by your Warp, but he's deactivated everything nonessential -"_

"_If there's another surprise I need to know about, I need to know now!"_ John shouted, planting his hands on the ground and spinning to his feet as the One ripped his hand free of the ground, sending dirt into the air to cascade down in a wide arc. "_You're wasting valuable time by saying it - I have a PBI and it works, use it!"_ A picosecond later, before John's feet had even twitched towards the ground, Cassidy transmitted to him the data she had stolen from John's momentary contact with the SIGMA's modified Titan suit.

The implications were not good, but at least now John had a tactical advantage - he knew, and his enemy had no way of knowing that he knew. This man had left when the Twos were _announced,_ so he had no possible idea that Titan II suits could interface with computers through touch, he had no idea that John's mind was partially synthetic, and as such he had no idea that John's contact with his chestplate had given him a direct hardline to his suit's computing systems. John had everything on the man, and 1-61 had no idea.

_But…_ Thought John, as his feet arced towards the ground and they and his hands dug in like an olympic sprinter waiting for the starting gun, _the first rule of anti-SIGMA warfare is to plan for everything. Even if he can't possibly know, I have to assume he does._ In the two seconds it took for the two to recover from 1-61's attempted strike to John's head, they were already barreling towards each other again.

* * *

><p>While what basically equated to two physical gods dueled to the death not one hundred meters away from them, inside an arena encircled in flames no less, the surviving Force Recon Marines were busy simply trying to not die. There was no fighting to be done by them except the fight to stay alive - they had no more than fifteen of them left, out of their original company of eighty, and fewer than half of those fifteen were in any fit state to fight. Jorell, who was at this point <em>high<em> on stims, painkillers and antibiotics, was doing what the other Marines were doing - watching the chaos unfold.

There wasn't anything else they truly could do - they had no more medical supplies, even when one stretched the definition to include anything that could be used as a bandage or a splint. Everyone was as patched up as they could possibly be, and the two that had volunteered to check the crashed evac shuttle had yet to return. Even their radios, their communicators, anything they could use to call for help, it was all destroyed, damaged, or otherwise out of commission. Truly the only thing they could do was focus on staying alive, and watch the fight, the SIGMA being their only hope at escape.

Jorell watched as the two collided with each other and traded blows. 2-15 ducked under a wide rocket-assisted right cross and countered with a devastating biotic uppercut. 1-61's head hadn't even finished snapping back before he'd grabbed 2-15's arm and yanked him forward, choke-slamming his opponent and delivering a brutal punch to the face, the clanging, ringing sounds of metal striking metal just managing to sound over the growing flames. Like a hammer on an anvil, it was distinctly audible every time one of their fists hit the other man.

"Jesus…" Groaned Jorell, as he forced himself to his feet, breaking eye-contact with the fight to check the fires that formed the arena in which the SIGMAs fought. While loud and a potential threat, the grass on the ground and the trees they tried to burn were all too alive and too wet to spread to, meaning the growth of the flames was slow, and easy enough to stave off by kicking dirt onto it; the Marines had cleared themselves a small dirt circle of anything flammable. "How can people even fight like that?" It was hard for any of them to keep up with, the two SIGMAs just moved and reacted at speeds nearly impossible for anyone else. One moment they would be grappling and struggling with each other, the next there would be a flurry of movement and all of a sudden something would explode, a crater would form, and they would move three meters in two seconds, to say nothing of their _strength._

"That's why they're SIGMAs, superman." Said one of the Marines, as he did the opposite of Jorell and slowly slid to his rear, groaning as the pressure on his nearly broken leg was lifted.

The green-suited Quarian shook his head, pressing his hand to his face and squinting his eyes as he tried to shake off the dizzy feelings he got as he tried to keep up with the two supersoldiers. Was there _nothing_ they could do? _Absolutely nothing?_ They were _Marines,_ damn it! They couldn't just _sit_ here, the SIGMA was buying them time to think, so what could they do with that time?

_Our only advantage are those Painter guns…_ Jorell looked at the surviving Marines, of whom only one had had the presence of mind to not abandon his weapon when the new SIGMA had told him to flee. _But we might kill _our _SIGMA if we try using them… _Jorell removed his hand, and after a moment, found the SIGMAs again. Both of them had their hands locked to eachother and their legs braced behind them, trying to best their opponent in a battle of strength. The biotic, 2-15, was practically covered in his biotic blue flames, whereas his opponent's vambraces were flaring brightly as their micro-thrusters balanced out his half of the struggle, the winds caused by them kicking up tons of dirt and debris. 2-15's helmet had a major dent in it, and part of his harness looked like it had taken a severe hit.

Jorell squinted his eyes. _Can it be that simple?_ He thought, as 1-61 cut all power to his thrusters and slammed his knee into 2-15 when the latter lost his balance. 1-61 then let go of 2-15's hands and elbowed him in the head, using the recoil from that blow to create enough space to launch a front-kick that sent 2-15 sprawling about the ground. To his credit, 2-15 hadn't even landed before he had reacted and started clawing at the ground, intent upon tackling 1-61 and taking their fight to the ground.

Jorell turned around, an idea forming in his mind, but the only way it would work is if a certain sniper was conscious enough to say 'yes'. Unfortunately for the Quarian engineer, the sniper was unconscious, with more dirt clogging up his wounds than there was bandages and torn strips of cloth binding and covering them. Jorell sighed, and turned back to the fight. 2-15 was straddling 1-61, one hand smashing his face while the other blasted his helmet with a biotic attack. 1-61 caught 2-15's hand and tried to stop him, but the warp field was already eating away at his armor, and with a loud roar, 2-15 overpowered 1-61 long enough to get a grip on his helmet and forcibly tear it off of the man's head. Unfortunately for 2-15, 1-61 would not let that go lying down, and after a brutal rocket-punch to the face, he threw 2-15 off of him and drew a knife.

Jorell frowned, and turned his gaze to the small pile of corpses that marked where the Painter guns had been before the SIGMAs had started beating the hell out of eachother. After a moment's thought, he turned to the marine closest to him and spoke clearly, "I've got an idea."

The Marine, without even turning, ran his hand over his buzz-cut head and groaned in a satisfied manner, "oh thank god…"

* * *

><p>The One, it seems, had his own defense-penetrator blade. Unlike his comrade, however, this one wasn't designed simply to create lasting injuries from the slightest nick, it was designed to cut through his defenses like butter. A blade with a cutting edge less than a molecule wide - even if it couldn't cut through his bones, it could damage his muscle suit and if he got a good stab in, when the suit broke it to pieces, it would just keep cutting into him as the suit failed to immobilize and remove the fragments.<p>

John twisted his chest as the one stabbed forward with the knife. 1-61 tried to remove himself from John's effective range before the Two capitalized on it, but the Two's reaction time was just good enough to allow him to react faster than his opponent. Now seeing his opportunity on the silver platter it had been handed to him upon, John chopped down on the One's arm and locked his hand to it before he twisted violently. It did nothing to the One's grip, but it hurt enough to stun him, to the point where the only force behind the punch 1-61 launched at John's helmeted head was that offered to him by his thrusters. The impact stunned John, long enough for 1-61 to rip his hand out of his opponent's iron grip and jam the knife into his gut. 1-61 got three stabs in before John's suit shattered the blade. John, despite the blood pouring from his gut and the shards cutting apart his innards, continued fighting.

With a deep bellow, John collected biotic energy in both hands and slammed them onto the One's exposed head, the shock going directly into his brain and stunning him long enough for John to beat the man's face with a flurry of fists before he stunned the man with a brutal biotic roundhouse kick. The SIGMA landed on his hands and feet, and tried to sweep John's out from under him, but John jumped over the SIGMA's attack, but due to the injuries to his stomach and his extensive biotic use, the child soldier was a fraction of a second too slow to dodge the second spin.

The impact of the man's leg on John's sent John to the ground, where 1-61 knife-hand-chopped at John's throat. John felt his windpipe collapse, and barely a second later he felt the One's punch slam into his stomach, pushing the razor sharp blades further into his gut, which, despite his suit's best efforts, was still leaking blood. John, at the outermost edges of his vision, saw his world losing color. With a pained grunt, John caught the next fist as it went for his chest with both of his own hands, but that left 1-61 free to get to his feet and smash his fist into John's already profusely bleeding face, all but destroying the front of his already mangled helmet.

With a loud yell, John yanked away both of his fists and coated the both of them in hardlight blades, before he slammed both of those blades into his opponent's weakened chest, and used his newfound leverage to bodily toss the man away from him. John was on his feet in two seconds, his hand cradling his gut and his ears ringing. His opponent was in no better shape, his ears and nose freely leaking blood, many parts of his face cut open and bruised, one of his eyes swollen completely shut, and a noticeable limp in one of his legs.

"_John, you -"_

"_Mute."_ How his internal speakers were still functioning, John didn't know, but he didn't need Cassidy, or a functioning HUD for that matter, to tell him how bad a shape he was in. Overusing his biotics, severe internal lacerations and blood-loss, stressing his body so soon after augmentation, what advantages he had over this SIGMA thanks to his training and his biotics were being beaten out by the SIGMA's stamina, plain and simple.

Out of the corner of his eye, sprinting through the fires, John saw the Marines, making a mad dash for the pile of corpses near the edge of their arena. With a deep frown, John hurtled forward, intent on not letting his opponent see the schemes of the Marines. John blasted the man with another Warp and hit the man in his chest with a biotic side-kick. The One grabbed John's leg and elbowed it at the knee, hurting John enough for the One to have long enough to yank John forward and grab him by the throat.

1-61 didn't even get the chance to squeeze before John felt a very invasive feeling in his stomach. Before John even realized what had happened, he felt his suit grow into the wounds and grab at all of the shards of the One's knife, before shooting them out of his body the same way they had come in. John saw the knife fragments falling from his gut in slow motion, and acted as fast as he could - grabbing at the largest shard he could see, he jabbed it into the One's neck.

1-61's hand clamped onto his neck, but his grip on John slackened enough for the Two to break his grip and slam both palms into the man's mangled and ruined chestplate, which was so damaged that even his ID Tag had been lost to the battle. John ripped his knife from its sheathe and leapt into the air, smashing the One's face with a spinning back kick and jamming his knife into the other side of the One's neck, giving him two knife wounds to deal with, as well as shards from John's _own_ knife, when the One's suit shattered it into pieces and left it a jagged, useless hunk of metal.

When John landed on the ground, he was greeted by the sight of a Quarian in a forest green suit leaping onto the SIGMA's back and locking his arms around the man's neck. John, already seeing the SIGMA begin to reach back, sent a biotic fist right for the SIGMA's nose, sending the man stumbling backwards. John followed it up with a right cross, as the Quarian squeezed the man's neck as best he could. When the SIGMA's head recoiled from John's attack, the Quarian took a pistol and jammed it at the base of the SIGMA's skull, and while the bullets failed to penetrate his skull, the force of impact was sent directly to his brain, stunning him as well as any of John's punches could, and the added blood-loss from the bullet wounds certainly helped.

1-61 was almost now solely acting on instinct, and John knew that instinct would dictate that he remove the man on his back. This in mind, John barreled forward and slammed his biotic fist into the man's chest; this impact proving to be the final straw and John's fist finally penetrated the armor plating. Now with direct access to the SIGMA's core, John opened his palm and clenched onto the man's skin suit, yanking him forward and reaching around to get at the marine, who received two pats on the back, a silent order to let go. The Marine slackened his grip and slid off of the SIGMA, ripping a shotgun from his back and loading a shell, which he deposited in the back of 1-61's weak leg just as 1-61 smashed his rocket-assisted fist into John's face. John, however stunned he was, kept his grip on the SIGMA and ripped his fist out of the man's weakened armor - taking a significant chunk of the man's skin suit with him, and silently revelling in the fact that, had the SIGMA I skin suit been made of the same materials and synthetic muscles his own had been made of, this maneuver would have been impossible.

1-61 stumbled forward, still reeling from the gunshots to the head and the stab wounds to the neck. His armor, his face, and the back of his head were quickly becoming drenched in blood, barely managing to mask how pale his skin was becoming. Now with space to maneuver, and a window to act, John ripped his assault rifle from his back, and time slowed down as he took aim. Blood-loss was a good, but slow method of killing a SIGMA, he needed to destroy the man's organs. The SIGMA regained his footing, his face a blood-stained painting of pure rage, mixed with the smallest amount of realization as he saw where John was aiming - right at the weak spot in his chest.

John opened fire, his gun bucking and barking as it sprayed ammunition precisely at the fist-sized hole in the supersoldier's armor. The SIGMA, to his credit, tried to block it by covering the hole with the arm that still had some modicum of armor plating, but when he did so, the green-suited Quarian marine opened fire with his shotgun, blasting him with dozens of pellets, each with a spread small enough that their collective force was just enough to cause 1-61 to recoil with each impact. The gunfire didn't end at John and the Quarian, however, as the other battle-ready Marines leveled their plasma weapons and all opened fire, multiple bright green beams of ionized plasma soaring through the air and hitting the One in various areas around his midsection and head.

1-61 roared in pain as he was assaulted from all angles by gun and plasmafire. He fell to one knee as John and Jorell reloaded their weapons. His hands and arms covered his head as the more seriously injured marines joined in, using their side-arms to add more sheer mass to the ballistic assault. The One struggled for a total of seven seconds under the weight of the weapons being brought to bear on him, the clearing around him drowned out entirely by the metallic rat-a-tat of ballistic guns and the metallic ringing of plasma. The gunfire was slamming into his armor and either penetrating the weaker sections or being reflected with a loud metallic clang and a brief spark, whereas the plasma was slamming into his back and spraying out in all directions, like water sprayed onto a flat surface.

The SIGMA slowly, laboriously, struggled back onto his feet, one hand covering the hole on his chestplate, the other slowly lowering down to his side as he stared directly at John, making direct contact with the severely damaged, soulless red plates on his gas mask/helmet. He managed to stand up despite she gratuitous amounts of damage being done to him, looking for a moment like a monster as it withstood the awesome amounts of firepower and stayed on his feet. After a moment, however, his life finally ended, vanishing as quickly and as suddenly as the lives of all of those he had fought during his life. For barely a second, his dead corpse stayed standing, before it finally crumpled to its knees and fell face forward.

John lowered his rifle, and as everyone slowly realized what had happened, and ceased fire, he thought of the look on the SIGMA's face just as the light vanished from his eyes. His face had been severely disfigured, more exposed skeleton and burned tissue than skin and muscle, but the expression in his eyes was unmistakable. It hadn't been one of hatred, anger, or malice, nor had it been one of peace or acceptance. The man hadn't been angry he was dying, nor did he give John - his enemy - one final loathful glare before his life ended; he hadn't had the bright shine that came with accepting his fate, nor the dull glow that came with the peace of knowing he was not long for this world. 1-61's eyes hadn't even had within them the strained look of a man in impossible amounts of pain, the look in his eyes as he died had been one of pity. Completely focused upon John's angular, blood red, dehumanizing glass faceplates, the SIGMA had given him a remorseful look of pity in those few moments before he fell to his knees and stopped resisting death.

"Uh, ho - _HOLY SHIT! WE DID IIIIIIIIIIT!"_ A Marine screamed, lifting his rifle into the air and howling in victory.

John ignored the Marines as they all roared in victory and embraced eachother in euphoria. He heard the speakers in his helmet flare to life, but they were garbled and damaged, leading whatever the speaker was saying to come out as little more than gibberish. John reached up to the base of his neck and released the magnetic seals on his helmet, he pulled it off and turned it around. It was unrecognizable from when John had gotten it less than two hours earlier, the face and sides horribly dented, crushed, and mangled, a few scars from where bullets had hit and been deflected, one of the plates cracked and chipped, almost broken, it looked like it had survived exactly what it had - a fist fight with two SIGMAs.

_But it's better than no protection at all._ John placed the damaged piece of armor back on his head and sealed it back together, before he opened up his smart-watch and synced it up with his radio, Cassidy was there a picosecond later, her gray holographic form practically buzzing with barely-contained panic.

"_John, I've got a casevac coming. In addition to your previous injuries, you're suffering from thirteen internal lacerations, bruised organs, intense shock, and severe burns all along your spine and in your ears. Both of your eardrums have been burst, nine of your surgical scars have reopened, you've lost forty three percent of your blood and your heart is -"_

"Cassidy." John interrupted, "I need you to do something for me."

"_What is it?"_

"Have Admiral Hacket contact Commander Ducard, and have three cell fluid containers waiting for me when I land, my spinal mount was broken." John said, "I know I need help… But I need something else too."

"_Message away - What is more important than getting the _intense _surgery you'll need to _survive_?"_

John looked up from Cassidy's holographic image to 1-61's smoldering, bleeding corpse, where some Marines were kicking it and prodding it, to make certain it was dead. John scowled, "_STOP THAT!"_ He roared, stalking up to the startled Marines and forcibly separating them from the SIGMA's corpse. "_Have respect, he is dead."_ He growled, so deeply and so forcefully that not a single Marine even considered refusing him. After a moment of tense silence, John kneeled down and fished inside of the One's armor, searching for the hidden 'white box' in all suits of Titan armor. He found it after a moment's searching, and removed it from the SIGMA's corpse; upon opening it, he found the man's dog tags, completely unscathed.

_Phillip Montrell, S1-61._ John read, before he stowed the white box in his harness and he quietly answered Cassidy's questions. "I want answers, Cassidy. And I am _going_ to get them."

* * *

><p><em>AN:_

_So, this chapter wasn't _longer_ than the last one, like I thought it'd be, but the last one's fist fight was more of a closer than a main event, whereas here, the fight was pretty much the entire chapter, and keeping it going any longer than it did would have made it feel like it was dragging on, so I think that'll make up for it. _

_Now, the good news is the hiatus is over, the bad news is its cessation is temporary as well - there are only a few chapters left before the first third of this story is well and done with. My plan is to have them all up before Christmas rolls around, that way I can take some time off (again) and enjoy the holidays with my friends and family._

_If you're interested in News, check my profile! If you're interested in more frequent updates (or just the random BS that pops into my mind), check out my Twitter, -at- ProfFartBurger!_

_'Till next time, folks!_

_-PFB_


	40. Chapter 37

_Chapter 37_

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><p><em>"Everything is different now!" <em>

— _**Mabel Pines, Gravity Falls **_

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><p><em><strong>July 2220<strong>_

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><p>There were three times, in his entire life of constant warfare, when Joseph Ducard could say he'd actually felt his heart slow down from any combination of fear or anxiety: when he'd been told he'd been chosen for a top-secret, black ops, Alliance super-soldier program, when he'd been informed that Humanity had made first contact, and the war that followed, and when he'd been told that he personally would be training eighty children to succeed him as a SIGMA. No other time, ever, had Ducard felt the heart-stopping fear as he did right now.<p>

"Admiral Hackett… Please say that again." He swallowed thickly, and maintained a rigid parade-rest, not believing his augmented ears.

The gravelly voiced Admiral inclined his head, it obvious to Ducard that the Admiral had better things to do than repeat himself. "_Sergeant Major Two-Fifteen engaged and killed the Protocol-Sixty Six SIGMAs. Upon extraction, he left the shuttle and went to the nearest briefing room and locked himself inside. He is refusing any and all medical aid outside of cell-fluid shots until he can speak to you."_

_Jesus Christ… _Ducard felt his throat dry up, and his heart slow as all of the potential repercussions played in his mind. "Has he spoken to anyone?" He asked, forcing his voice to remain calm. "Has he said anything?"

"_Nothing beyond demanding to see you, specifically requesting that you be brought to him. He is threatening physical harm should anyone else enter the same room as him."_

Ducard nodded, it made sense - given the situation he was in, and depending on what the three said to him, John would only be trusting of other II's. Anyone else could be sent by Ducard or the Ones to kill him before he spoke. "Give him the space he wants - what ship is he on?"

"_The SSV Red Star. It being the largest hospital ship in local space, himself and the Marines -"_

_Silver fucking lining._ "Send an order to the ship's captain and make doubly certain neither she nor _anyone_ speaks to him before I get there, Admiral."

Hackett's eyebrows furrowed, "_what is going on here, Commander?"_

"Sir…" He shook his head, "nothing good, at all. I can't explain everything to you, but there are things that SIGMA did not know that may have been revealed to him by the Sixty Sixers. You _should have told me_ that they were on Manheim." Even if it cost them the lives of those Marines, the lives saved by ensuring that a SIGMA II didn't go on some sort of murderous rampage would have made up for it. John wasn't just digesting world-shaking revelations, he was doing so with an AI hooked into his head, on an Alliance hospital ship, in a flotilla that had in it a ship captained by his _damned_ mother, who he very well _will_ recognize if he gets even a passing glance - which was almost guaranteed to happen _given how he is reacting._

Ducard felt his slowed heart-rate begin climbing. If John encountered his still-living mother, after the potential revelations given to him by Montrell and his allies, that could be the straw to break the camel's back. He could snap, lose faith in the entire system, and worse would be if he could convince his mother he was who he was, he would essentially have the captain of one of the most advanced carriers in the entire Alliance Navy at his beck and call. It would _not_ be hard to convince the crew of his righteousness, as long as he told them his story, and then he could feasibly spearhead an assault on Titan-Med, rescue his brothers, and then have an army of _hundreds of SIGMAs_ willing to follow him.

Ducard clenched his fist, even if it meant throwing away ten years of his life, he was _not_ going to let that happen. Even if it meant killing John - and the others too, if he were to be honest with himself - he was not willing to let that kind of chaos get unleashed.

"I am leaving now." He cut the vid-comm and turned on his heel, heading for the shuttle-bay. "Julius." He called out to the station's AI, whose holographic 'body' appeared out of the dust-tech in the air.

"_Yes, Commander."_ The AI was unlike others, it forwent an actual 'body' in lieu of a clear orb which flashed briefly with every syllable uttered. "_How can I help you?"_

"Send a message to Commander John Doe S-One-One, and General Lars Utterfeln S-One-Nine. Tell them that the Sixty Sixers were found and were eliminated by Sergeant Major Two-Fifteen before I could educate him on the finer details of the SIGMA's Charter, specifically, Protocol Sixty Six. Tell them to deploy any ten available squads to Arcturus-Station and recall all of the Company Commanders to Titan-Med." He instructed the machine as he walked with purpose through the enormous medical station.

"_Yes, Commander. Is there anything else I can do for you?"_ The machine asked, helpfully.

"Yeah. Get one squad deployed to the black-site on Earth to retrieve item forty two. If they don't get revised orders within twenty four hours from me, General One-Nine, or the Company Commanders, they are to use it on Titan Med." He repressed a sigh, and then muted the external speakers on his suit. "Titan OS, make a reminder for me to speak to Commander One-One about retirement." If this went the way he prayed it didn't, and he survived, he was done, well and truly, with the entire life. He would sooner farm on Eden or work construction on Titan-moon than suit up in his armor again.

* * *

><p><em>Protocol Sixty Six…<em> Thought John S2-15. _We are not a part of the Alliance. They have no true hold over us. Their ideals can and have been predicted to differ from ours. We were made to protect humanity from all threats foreign and domestic. _His stomach throbbed, still managing to hurt despite his system being flooded with cell fluid and painkillers. He could literally feel his nanomachines stitching him together from the inside out, though the odd, invasive feeling was drowned out by the pain in his shredded stomach, his forcibly fixed throat, and in his mind. _The Alliance doesn't control us… McGraw went to the Alliance. He gave them the idea. He told them to make us. They told the Ones to make us. The Ones listened. _

The dull hum of the _Albert Einstein's_ reactor, even so far beneath him and so deep inside the ship, provided a good white noise for John to think. He was seated on a chair in a briefing room, a large table taking up most of the room's space. In all honesty, his weight was too much for most chairs to handle, the muscles on his suit had simply locked up when he had assumed a seating position, and when his posterior had pressed against the chair. He was faced towards the only entrance to the room, but he broke his gaze with the door to sink his throbbing head into his blood stained hands, the armor plates severely damaged from his multiple fights.

_But the Ones didn't have to listen._ His breathing began accelerating as his thoughts continued to spiral. _They protect humanity, _we _protect humanity… We protect its ideal… What is its ideal? Are we its embodiment, or its sentinel? Is the ideal of humanity that the ends justify the means? Then what is that end? Does that end explain why I exist - that some humans humanity can be sacrificed so others can pursue their own? But then what is humanity? A concept? A species? A belief? A morality? Does it apply to me? Can I pursue it? Do I forsake it to protect it? Am I even human? Do I have humanity?_ The child-soldier asked himself, pressing his hands and his face into the metal plates of his helmet, as if he could push these confusing thoughts from his mind.

_Why do I exist, to protect an ideal I do not understand, by fighting for a species that I am not, in a war I did not start, for reasons that have been kept secret from me?_ He asked himself, releasing his face and returning to stare directly at the door.

Interrupting his thoughts, the young AI embedded in his neck spoke through his Smart Watch, disturbing the white noise of the distant reactor. "_John, do you have a moment? I have a question about your augmentations, and it cannot wait any longer."_

John had been expecting this question for a while now. With little battlefield intelligence and cyber warfare for her to occupy herself with, she looked inward to find something to kill time. It had been more than an hour since he'd been brought back out into orbit, so if it had taken her this long to bring it up, it must have been something interesting. John didn't know exactly how fast AI's thought, but they thought and perceived time faster than most Humans and even SIGMAs. For a human, one second's pass was nothing, but to an AI, it was an eternity. The brief pauses Humans took to think of a clever, witty, or correct response in a conversation were endless for their cybernetic creations, and this was why it was always a significant thing when an AI took more than an instant to respond to a query; that Cassidy had spent more than an hour told John that it either expected to be muted again, which John felt an odd feeling in the pit of his chest about, or that it simply didn't understand what it was seeing, and more than an hour's worth of time and effort devoted solely to it had come up with no answer.

"Commander Ducard is not set to arrive on this vessel for another forty three minutes, thirty seconds. The crew has been given orders not to speak to me until I have spoken to him. We have time." The super soldier said succinctly, his voice hitting his mangled helmet and coming out muffled to the room around him.

"_Using the Titan Suit's bio-comm systems and your own augmentations, as well as the memories I can read from your brain implants, I've catalogued -"_

"Cassidy." John interrupted her, "I understand that speaking to me is new. I understand that everything to you is new. But one thing you have to know is that when given the choice, I do not have the patience for lengthy explanations. Give me short answers, and if I need more, I will ask for it." He explained, "all Twos are like this. Now what did you find?" He felt a brief feeling in the pit of his chest after it dawned on him that the machine wasn't used to him being short with it, but it would figure out either now or later what he'd taken to heart a long time ago - time was precious on the battlefield, and speaking took up more time than anything else, so short, concise answers and orders saved the most time and saved the most lives.

Cassidy took an entire second to process what John said, before she responded with, "_an unlisted augmentation, secondary to the Positronic Brain Implant."_

"Unlisted meaning what?" John narrowed his eyes, his augmented mind drumming up dozens of possibilities in milliseconds.

"_In the itinerary provided to me by your clearance access, this augmentation was not on the list of approved ones you would be receiving at Titan Medical station."_

"Is it you?" John asked, knowing that AI implants were highly experimental, and were probably partially illegal - but, then again, by sheer convenience of existence, he was breaking a law or two.

"_No. It is something else. It has been active for four years."_

John blinked, four years? He hadn't gotten any bio-mech augments four years ago, those had all been solely bio-chemical, among other things, being meant to make his body more pliable and accepting of the machines he'd received _this_ year. "What is it doing?"

"_It is hampering the flow of neurons through your brain. Specifically suppressing and even storing some, as if they were data on a hard-drive." _

John's eyes narrowed, an implant that suppressed the flow of neurons in his brain? That sounded like it went directly against _everything_ he'd been taught - the mind was his single greatest weapon, even deadlier than his hands and feet, and stronger than his muscles. Nearly all of his augmentations, in some way shape or form, _improved_ his mind, almost the entire point of his preliminary augmentations was to strengthen and enhance his organs and his ability to heal, so his brain could take more trauma and still work perfectly. If he had an augmentation that specifically hampered his brain, that meant he was a liability on the battlefield.

_It's been in there for four years. _John thought back to the only possible point he could have gotten it, four years ago - his first visit to Earth and Titan-Med. The only things that came up were his trip to australia, where he'd hallucinated seeing a dead Two. Anecdotally, thinking back to those times also made his head hurt.

"_The machine, just now - it started suppressing more neurons. They started flaring, but it -"_ The machine caught itself, and went with the short answer, "- _it stopped them."_

"Do you know what this suppression does?" John asked, his head aching a bit as he tried to remember everything he could, and oddly found it more difficult than it should have been.

"_No."_

"Can you take an educated guess?" Trying to remember that trip to Titan-Med felt like swimming upstream, against the grain, in a river of flowing sand.

There was a pause, "_I would say that it is hampering, suppressing, or even altering certain memories, as the neurons it is hampering first travel into the machine, are suppressed or stored, and then exit the machine different. Weaker. They travel to your hippocampus, and the process repeats."_

John reached up and felt alongside the left half of his mangled, damaged helmet, underneath which was his head, within which was his brain, which was apparently housing foreign, unknown technology. Did this have something to do with 1-61 and his allies? With 'Sixty Six'?

"Can you switch it off?" The way John saw things, this was a hazard to him and it made him a liability on the battlefield. It could be suppressing his muscle-memory, or the experience of a pivotal battle during training - if it came in during his first round of augmentations, it could even be suppressing something he'd seen on Mindoir, which meant it _had_ to go. Combat memories were gold to John, they were experiences he could learn from, lessons he could impart to his brothers, strengths he could draw from, if this augmentation was depriving him of them, it had to go, no matter the costs.

"_I… I think so."_ Said the AI, "_it was difficult, but I should mention that, once I broke through its first firewall, it was almost like I was guided through it… Like whoever programmed this machine __**wanted**_ _me to break through its security processes, but didn't want to just let me through… There were even small, errant bits of code. They translate to binary, but the message doesn't make sense."_

"What does it say?"

"_Three words, all names - Prometheus, Atlas, Cronus. In that order."_

John narrowed his eyes further, trying to draw any kind of connection. He knew vaguely that they were gods of some sort, but mythology wasn't something the instructors emphasized. "If you can access the machine itself, can you process the stores neurons it is keeping from me?" John asked.

"_Not without shutting it off and letting the neurons travel through your mind and into the PBI."_

John hesitated for a moment, but decided that, in the grand scheme of things, not much worse could happen than what he'd learned today, and if it turned out to be nothing, he could always turn it on again. "Then switch it off, I'll deal with what happens next." Not even a second after he finished speaking, the foreign augmentation was switched off, and in one migraine-inducing blur of lights, sounds, textures, feelings and experiences, John remembered _everything._

* * *

><p>To truly surprise a SIGMA, who themselves were soldiers who could feasibly say they had seen most, if not, everything the universe had to throw at them, one either had to be so utterly foolish and random that they could even make the enigmatic engineer himself blush, or they had to act in a way that the SIGMA in question could never even possibly predict, not on their wildest dreams. Given that SIGMAs themselves were the only true masters of anti-SIGMA warfare, which itself meant that they had to plan for everything and act accordingly, to the point where they would be willing to adopt a hive-mind mentality one moment, and drop it the very next, the possibility of surprising one was closer to <em>impossibility<em> than it was to actual reality.

Joseph Ducard turned out to be the one SIGMA in a million that would prove to be an exception to the norm, as he was surprised when he opened the door to the ship's main briefing room - a brightly lit rectangular room about five meters across, with a large table in its center and a television on one wall - and was punched in the face with all the triply augmented strength the room's solitary SIGMA Two had to offer. Even with his enhanced reflexes, he simply had no time at all to react to the punch. To the SIGMAs, it happened in slow motion, but in reality the confrontation happened blurrily fast. His head whipped back from the force of the punch, his entire body fell backwards as it was shoved forward by the strength behind John's arm, and his arms splayed out as they tried to resist the motions of his body falling backwards.

Before his feet even left the ground, the SIGMA Two exercised the full force of his biotics by opening his right hand and then clenching it tight, immobilizing the One in a biotic stasis field and unintentionally crushing several plates of armor due to a botched execution. John grabbed Ducard by his chestplate just as the frozen body began to leave the ground, and threw him back inside the briefing room. The One landed on the floor with a loud metallic crash and skidded a few feet with a horrendous grinding noise, leaving a deep dent in the metallic floor. The Two was inside the room again in an instant, the door swishing shut behind him and locking tight with a loud clank. John stood above Ducard and crouched down low, one knee pressing against the One's chest plate as he drew his gun with one hand, and disarmed the One with the other, a look of equal parts betrayal and livid contempt on the face hidden by the disfigured and mangled gas mask/helmet. Ducard actually felt a bead of sweat fall down his head as he began to comprehend just how inhumane the Two looked with the damage done to his armor and his helmet, how terrifying it was that John was still so lethal despite being covered in his own blood and fighting in severely damaged armor.

John was clenching his side-arm so tightly that not only was he slightly crushing its reinforced grip, but his arm was shaking. The gun was pointed at Ducard's face, and with an application of crushing biotic force, the One's shields shattered wholesale, and he saw a biotic warp-field slowly eating away at his bullet-proof visor. Would he have been in any other situation, Ducard would have been impressed with John's skill in utilizing so many biotic skills at once, in direct spite to the fact that he should, by all rights, have needed days, or even weeks, to get reacclimated to his augmented powers, but right now he was focused on two things, the first obviously being the clear and present danger to his life, but the second being the more subtle of the two: John was running on fumes. There was the slight twitch in the way his wrist shook, the gurgle of his wounded stomach, the dry gulps in his throat, the man was almost out of energy. When Human biotics used their powers, they burned through their energy at astonishing rates, which was why they had separate rations from regular soldiers - they and their increased metabolisms simply needed more food. If a biotic went too long without a meal, and used their powers too often between these meals, their bodies would begin turning inward to continue to fuel them. John had been under the knife for months, and had been in recovery for the same amount of time, the last time he'd eaten a full meal coincided with the last time he was on Sparta, meaning that he likely had little to nothing else to digest; like a snake consuming its own tail, John would soon, if he wasn't already, begin digesting his own muscle mass - his very body - to continue to fuel these mass affecting abilities.

Despite it all, Ducard still felt like this was a situation he could salvage - he didn't _want_ to kill John, after all. "John, I know what they said sounds strange to you, but -"

"You stole from me." Said John, his voice cold and blank, and so quiet that he was almost whispering. This cold fury stopped Ducard dead, because the boy in front of him could _not _be referring to what he thought he was referring to. It was impossible - the Sixty-Sixers couldn't have known about this, the only people in the galaxy that knew were all hurtling towards Titan Med.

"What did I steal from you, John?" Ducard asked, slowly, carefully, calmly, but inside he had a sliver of fear running down his spine - try as he might, he couldn't break the stasis field, it was literally impossible for non-biotics to break stasis fields. Surviving this, let alone winning it, would become a great deal tougher, but not impossible.

Ducard silently tensed one of his fingers - discovering the smallest amount of give present within the limited space inside his armor, he sent out a lightning fast message to the captain of the ship: _Prepare emergency burn, full power, deactivate inertial dampeners, sync w/AI, on my go._ If he could knock John off balance, even for a second, his lapse in focus would disperse the stasis field; it was crude, but a second was all he needed. Ducard made certain to ignore that he'd just heard a report that said John had killed _three_ ones, and he certainly didn't think about how high or low his chances of victory could be in a similar fight, especially given his environment.

"You _lied_ to me." John stated, ignoring Ducard's question; John was crouching over Ducard, one hand clenching Ducard's breastplate, another tightly clenching his magnum handgun. "You _betrayed_ me… But worst of all is that you didn't just betray _me._ You betrayed _me,_ Justin, George, David, Eli… Every single SIGMA Two alive, Ducard." That last word told Ducard everything he needed to know. He wasn't 'Commander', or 'One-Ninety Nine', or 'sir', he was _Ducard,_ an impersonal utterance of his last name as a sign of detachment - the only reason John hadn't killed him yet was because he had information that John didn't. "Even… And _especially… Two-One Zero Six."_

_I'm not leaving this ship alive._ Thought Ducard with finality, as it all fell into place for him. Killing two SIGMAs and confirming the death of a third, having one of those SIGMAs throw world-shattering news at him, and somehow deactivating Edward Spokane's memory-altering augmentations had broken the child, or at the very least broken his faith not just in Ducard, but all of the Ones, living or dead, past, present, or future.

Ducard set his jaw and tensed the fingers on his right hand - his reflexes and perception were great enough that he would have just one half of a second to tell the AI to burn the thrusters, if he saw John squeeze the trigger. Half of a second between life and death, and John held most of the cards. The boy wasn't stupid, he wouldn't move first, but he also was more or less in control of the situation - just _one_ wrong move on Ducard's end, and his life was over, and his legacy would be that of a chaotic war that would upheave the whole of human society. SIGMA against SIGMA, man against man, the Alliance dissolving, cats and dogs, living together, mass hysteria; and to top it all off, the giant that was the Citadel, with a vengeful Hierarchy just _waiting_ for their chance to convince the Council to take their shot at removing the Alliance as a potential threat.

_I can't take that chance - I have to do it._ He couldn't wait for John to make that move, he obviously wasn't going to see reason, he was too angry, his mind too clouded by rage, pain, and the cell fluid's chemicals, drugs, and machines running through his system.

Literally just before Ducard twitched an armored digit, the biotic field restraining him vanished, his body went limp. John reached forward with his left hand and grabbed Ducard's head, he smashed it onto the deck, let go of him, stood up, and holstered his gun in one smooth motion as he took two steps back.

_What?_ Blinked the One, as he recovered from the lightning fast assault.

John removed his helmet, revealing his face to Ducard. It was splattered in his blood, and had multiple large bruises, welts and gashes covering it. His expression, however, was what Ducard read instantly, it was one of pale fury. The boy was so angry and so confused that he simply didn't know what to do with all of the raw rage and fury welling up inside him. He was angry enough to kill a man as soon as salute him, but this anger was blinding and filling him so that he simply didn't know which to do - kill the man, or salute him. So in the absence of any true desire, he went with the intrinsic, instinctual response all humans had - he tried to understand the situation.

"I want to know _why."_ Growled the livid child-killing-machine, who kept eye contact with the One for just a few seconds, before he replaced the helmet, his point made.

Ducard, slowly, got to his feet. He saw John seated in a chair, arms folded against his gut and his expression masked by the literally inhumane gas-mask/helmet. The man - the _child - _in front of him didn't actually _want_ to fight, didn't truly _desire_ vengeance. He was turning down his chance, for an explanation. His heart beating heavily in his chest, as he realized that there just might be a way to salvage this whole thing, ducard pulled up his own seat, warily. "Where do you want me to start?" He asked with a sight filled with the kind of complete exhaustion that could only come from a lifetime of dealing with death, battle, and unspeakable atrocities.

"With Miranda S-Two-One Zero Six. Why you stole those memories from me and lied afterwards. Why you didn't steal them from anyone else. Why you lied to all of us." John listed off, his voice coming from a mask and not a face; it was only now that Ducard realized how perfectly he'd succeeded at ripping away this child's humanity. "Then I want to know about protocol sixty six and everything it entails." Ducard nodded slowly, but John caught on instantly. "Stop stalling. The only thing that is stopping me from killing everyone and everything I see, and convincing my brothers to do the same, are the words that come from your mouth." He said succinctly, bluntly, holding no verbal punches.

Ducard acquiesced, "the SIGMA Two program was a beyond-top-secret venture for the Alliance. Christopher McGraw visualized it during the days of Jason Whyte, and it came to fruition years later. The problem was, that while they could divert small fractions of their various funding expenditures away to fund a secret super-soldier project, what worked before couldn't work again." Explained the One who'd lived through it all twice, first with the Ones, then with the Twos. "So this time they went to the private sector. They provided tax incentives -"

"Consider your audience, Ducard. Myself and my brothers were not taught economics. We were taught infrastructure."

"They went to the private sector. Instead of government funds, they took civilian funds, and convinced everyone they could to donate. One quarter of the funding for the Twos came from the government, two quarters from the private sector, and the final fourth from McGraw himself, but you know that story. The point is, _people,_ knew about this project. Very few people, but people nonetheless. The Alliance threw around treason like it was candy, but if one of the backers really wanted to, they could be a whistleblower and blow the top off of the whole thing... Expose us all." Ducard explained, "so because of that, some people have pull with the Alliance, and could get some decisions made in regards to the program. Originally, McGraw wanted fifteen hundred children, but the lack of 'public' support and the decisions of the private sector brought that number down to six hundred twelve. You saw the results of one such backer's pull in the Alliance with the arrival of Two-One-Oh-Six."

"Miranda's father."

"Yes." Nodded Ducard, "I don't know the story, but he got angry with Miranda, pulled strings with the Alliance, and got her sent to a… Very extreme military school." But he knew that John knew this story, so he continued. "After you pulled your stunt in Australia, another private-sector approached us, but he wasn't a funder, rather a… Man… Who is impossibly well connected, and not just in the Alliance."

"How well connected?"

"We don't _know._ After the conclusion of the Second Contact War, the man became a ghost, but his name is feared amongst the most powerful men in the Alliance and _beyond._ The Salarian Special Tasks Group is aware of this man, and he hides better than _them._ _They_ know as much as _we_ do. With just a few phone calls and less than two hours of effort, he literally undid all of the political damage your stunt in Australia called. This is a man who is, or was, a trusted confidant of Christopher McGraw. The only other human being on the blacklist. He had McGraw-scale technology and he was not afraid to use it. He did more to ease the tension between the Alliance and Earth than anyone else had been able to do with _decades. _But to properly explain to you his actions, and his relationship with the Alliance, their relationship with Earth, and the Alliance's relationship with us, I'll have to give you some history."

"All I have is time." John stated, none-too-subtly prompting Ducard to tell his story.

Ducard nodded, "In twenty-one-thirty-three, the Systems Alliance charter was drafted up and signed. All permanent members of the United Nations Security Council forged a new governing body, one that would oversee the whole of Humanity during our trip through the final frontier. They would be the face of our race in the event of extraterrestrial contact… They would, essentially, be a space-based UN. That name had actually been put forth, with the Earth-based UN to be changed to the United-_Earth-_Nations, but the Systems Alliance won by one vote." He waved that bit aside, "the problem was, Earth nations wanted a say in interstellar policy, and because all of Earth was essentially _one hundred percent_ of the Alliance's Gross Domestic Product - all of their money and resources - the Alliance couldn't even feasibly say no to anything they said. That was why it took us thirteen years to leave our solar system, and why, in fifty years, we only ever colonized one extra-solar planet. More colonies meant more sources of income for the Alliance itself, which meant Earth had less pull and less say in interstellar politics, which just wouldn't do.

"Well, come First and Second Contact and the war afterwards. The Alliance saw its chance, and a _massive_ PR campaign was launched to pull public opinion towards mass colonization. Our colonies were doubling and doubling and doubling, to the point where we had close to three dozen, and all of them were making money. All of a sudden, Earth had a lot less pull on the Alliance than they had before the war, and before they could tighten the leash, the Alliance seceded entirely by creating Arcturus and announcing it as the organization's socio-political capital. Just like that, Earth and the United Nations had as much pull on the Alliance as Eden, or Mars, or Fehl-Prime, or Newton, and they didn't like that at all.

"Since then, tensions between the Alliance and Earth have been steadily increasing. Nothing the Board does has been able to alleviate that tension, they've even gone as far as to allow the UN to man half of the Sol-defense fleet, nothing works. Earth wants an earth-based governing structure for all of Humanity, Earth first, all other planets second. The Alliance, however, wants an equal representation for all colonies - an interstellar round table. You can see the disconnect.

"So, fast forward to today. Earth and the UN are taking every opportunity they can to call foul on the Alliance and to shift views towards their side of things. When Jason Whyte declared to the galaxy that Humanity and the Quarians would stand alone? They called foul. When Jason Whyte scared the galaxy half to death with Operation WHIP? They called foul. When the Board under Tyson declared war on the Hegemony, without even contacting the Citadel's ambassador to us, or our ambassador to the Citadel? Foul. Every single decision, foul, foul, foul. Even their Earth-centric decisions are fouled. When Tyson called for a mass cleanup of Earth's orbit? They called foul. When the Director for Quarian Affairs suggested terraforming Mars, so as to alleviate Earth's population and increase interstellar commerce with the Sol System? Foul. Nothing they do pleases them, everything they do angers them. It is, literally, everything the Alliance can do to avoid a real civil war, one that makes the Rebellion look like a border-skirmish.

"So, your stunt in Australia. I had to use SIGMAuthority to deploy Alliance forces onto Australian soil, to save your ass and bring you into custody. We knew Earth would call foul, and rightfully so - the Alliance only has clearance to conduct training operations in Russia, the middle-east, Antarctica, and the US, nowhere else, yet." Explained the One, "but before we could even consider damage control, a man approached us. He said that he could alleviate the tension, avoid war, all we had to do was test out a new augmentation he'd developed on one of the SIGMAs in Titan-med, and who better to use it on than the one who started the whole thing?" He asked, rhetorically.

John, loathe though he was to admit, found it hard to be mad at that. "So you stole from me and lied about it, to avoid civil war." Such a war would fracture Humanity, weaken the Alliance, and leave the whole of mankind vulnerable to alien war. John wanted to be angry at Ducard for taking the one thing John could truly call his own, and he still was, irrationally, but the logical, colder side of him at least helped him to understand that what Ducard had done wasn't _entirely_ wrong, it was just the lesser of two evils.

Ducard nodded, "I didn't want to. But I had to avoid the war. Mankind above all."

"That doesn't tell me why you haven't told us about Sixty Six."

"That… Is a whole 'nother beast." Ducard shook his head and sat up. "The SIGMA Charter under Jason McGraw calls for a fair and impartial, but irresistible and immovable guardian for all of mankind. One that is unbound by laws and is ready, willing, and able to act in the interests of the greater good. You know this. What you don't know, is what McGraw meant." He explained, "you know of the Citadel's Spectres, yes?" He asked, "it is similar in concept. He wanted the SIGMAs to be their own. We do not answer to the Alliance, we do not answer to the incumbent Human government, we answer to ourselves. We hold ourselves accountable for everything we do. Protocol Sixty Six is a catch-all term for secession from the Alliance, cessation of _our_ alliance with _them,_ temporary or otherwise_. _In short, Sparta, and the SIGMAs and their families who populate it, isn't a part of the Human Systems Alliance, we are an independant military city-state situated within the Alliance's borders. We are allies with the Alliance, in that our people - our 'citizens' - are granted citizenship in the Alliance, pay as an Alliance government employee, and so on. Like how the Krogan are not a part of the Citadel, the Migrant Fleet was its own beast, and the Alliance separated itself from the galaxy to maintain its independence, Sparta is independant from the Alliance.

"This is because Jason McGraw wanted an impartial guardian for all of human-kind. One that had no allegiance to any incumbent government. We have the authority to act outside of the Alliance, and to supercede its ranking structure, all in the name of protecting and serving humanity. To give you an example of what this means… When the Gaian Rebellion started, a conclave was called. For two days and two nights, the Ones debated whether or not the Rebels were right, whether or not mankind would be better off under experienced alien rule. All SIGMAs concluded that the rebels were wrong, and as such we chose to side with the Alliance. But later, when the Alliance would come to us with a new initiative - the SIGMA Two initiative - we debated again. Again, the majority ruled that the Alliance was still the best bet for mankind… All agreed still, except for three. These three decided that the Alliance had deviated from the path, and took it upon themselves to set them back on that path by siding with the rebels."

"The three I killed."

"The three you killed." Confirmed the Commander. "They weren't rogue. Much the opposite, they were well within their rights to be doing what they were doing, even the Alliance knew that, even if they didn't want to admit it. Those three left Sparta amicably, with no ill-will, no harbored feelings of hatred, merely differing ideals. They believed that the Alliance was too evil, was too ill-fit to rule, and that mankind would prosper under alliance with the Citadel… We did not."

"And why didn't you tell us?" John asked.

"Because when the Alliance came to us, with the gall to order us to steal children to turn them into killing machines, John Doe nearly ordered an assassination mission on the Board of Directors and Christopher McGraw. We nearly started a war. It took us six and a half days of non-stop debate and discussion to come to a decision about this… But in the end, we did it, but on our terms. We didn't assault Arcturus, but rather launched a cyber assault on the whole of the Alliance travel database. Literally no one, no where, knows where Sparta is, except us and our AI. We came to the decision that we would _try,_ the Alliance's way. We would _try_ and train up children, we would see if McGraw was right… But we let the Alliance know that we aren't their soldiers, and they aren't our leash-holders. They aren't Earth, and we aren't the pre-contact Alliance.

"We decided that we would raise you all as SIGMAs, not Alliance soldiers. Instead of fostering an inevitable hatred of the government that stole you from your homes, we replaced that hatred with a drive not to protect the Alliance… But Humanity itself. Never once did we tell you that your job was to serve the Alliance, we always told you that you served Earth, her colonies, her interests, and her _people._ _Not_ her governments. We taught you to respect authority, and to respect the Alliance, but to do the right thing above all. When you all awakened, we would have gathered you before formally inducting you into the program as ranking members, and told you everything. Shown you the method to our madness." Ducard explained.

John sat there for several minutes in silence, digesting everything Ducard had told him. He still felt hatred, the kind of blind loathing only a child who'd never truly grown up could feel. The scalding hot fury that burned only him. Behind his mask, his face was a blank slate of rapidly churning and foaming thoughts and ideas, all revolving around what Ducard had told him. The dull white-noise of the _Einstein's_ reactor filled the silence between them.

"Is there anything else you haven't told us?"

"Do you truly want that answer, John?" Ducard deflected, almost on instinct. "There are things you'll never know, never understand. You and the Twos… You…" He caught himself, trying to find the right words. They just weren't _people,_ not fully, not really. They would never experience the world for what it was, would never have a reason to defend it beyond a knee-jerk automatic 'it's what I am supposed to do' response. They wouldn't understand any of it, even if it was explained to him. Here was a child, who had never and would never experience the world he was fighting for, all but begging to understand the things that were just simply outside his realm of comprehension. To describe to him what the world was, how it worked, and why it worked the way it did, would be like describing color to a blind man, or sound to a deaf man - it was all but impossible. "You just aren't ready. You aren't capable. There are things we've done... Things every human being does... You might never understand." An example, Ducard knew, being that one of those six hundred plus children's parents was still alive, and was less than half of a lightyear from him.

John sighed through his nose. "You stole from us. You lied to us. _And_ you betrayed us." John said for the second time. "I may mostly understand your reasons, Ducard, but that changes nothing. I _will_ tell my brothers what you've told me today. You always told us that communication was the key to victory, that has never been held more true than today. Had you told us all of this from the start, the outcome would have been different, but now, your lack of forthrightness has driven a wedge between your kind and mine. Ones and Twos. In the light, we are united, we stand as one, but behind closed doors, we are separate, we divide into two. This trust we once had in you may never be regained." John said, coldly. "But… You will reap what you sow, SIGMA. You wanted super soldiers better than your best, and you got them… But you enraged and armed them and nearly made them your fundamental enemy. You wanted guardians of mankind, who would stand tall and resolute in the face of all adversity, and you got it… But you alienated them from the very race they were made to protect, and turned them into something more than and less than Human all in one. You wanted living legends that could outshine and outreach the best of you, and you got it… But to get it, you dirtied your hands with the innocence of six hundred and twelve children. You wanted sentinels who would watch over everything in front of them, and not move an inch so as to protect everything behind them, and you got them… But you made them so well that they don't even _care_ for what it is behind them." John leaned forward and spoke bluntly, "you wanted SIGMA Twos. _You got them._ And you might not be glad that you did.

"We will do as you raised us to. We will be Humanity's resolute, unstoppable, irresistible, and, most damningly, _impartial_ guardians. But think about this, as we fight for you and for everyone else… What has mankind done for us?" He sat up, stood up, and left the room without another word.

* * *

><p><em>AN:_

_No real news/statements to be made. Following that last line, I don't really want to say _anything,_ lest I ruin the impact._

_So... 'Till next time!_

_-PFB_


	41. Chapter 38

_Chapter 38_

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><p><em>"You don't have to change much to change everything." <em>—_**Mark Rosewater**_

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><p><em>July 2220<em>

_Thank you, Mister Warren._ The Illusive Man typed out on the holographic keyboard floating in front of him. _I urge you to remind the good doctor of the temporary nature of this solution. If he does not want it getting out that he does work for the organized crime rings, he would do well to continue providing us with the information he comes across during his work. _

It was one thing after another, the graying fifth-column leader would receive and respond to a report from one operation, and immediately send out an order for a new one, before having to pause on that to respond to a deteriorating situation with regards to an ongoing assignment, to say nothing of what happened whenever another Vanguard operation wrapped up. The well dressed man leaned back and pulled another report from the thin air. Cleanup operations on Manheim were going well, and they had pulled a great deal of useful information from the Painter vault Force Recon had discovered. Somewhere around fifteen hundred functioning weapons were discovered, and there were no findings on what made the army of genetically identical rebels.

_Miss Lawson did well…_ Thought The Illusive Man, with a small approving nod.

"Caesar, send a note to Miss Serenity in the AATF. Tell her that I will pull strings in Alliance Intelligence if she secures a number of Painter weapons for me to study. Then send a message to Richard Fenn in Alliance Intelligence…" He leaned forward and typed up a few keywords, finding the scandal he had covered up for the unfortunate Intelligence analyst. Staring at the picture of the naked child lying dead on a bed, he continued, "remind him of Thomas Veridy and instruct him that he must siphon another eighty thousand in unmarked bills and drop them off at a pre-designated drop point." He thought a moment before casting the image away, "then set up a contract with the Blue Suns through a dummy company to have a sniper posted wherever this drop point is. If anyone but Miss Serenity or someone she warns us about picks up that case, they get shot, and then the Veridy pictures are leaked."

"_At once, sir."_ Said the AI.

The Illusive Man pulled up another document about a situation developing on the Citadel. Another attempted bombing foiled by C-Sec, with the primary suspects being humans, of course. Obviously that wouldn't do, and with a few thousand words typed into a few discreet messages, it would soon be revealed that genetic samples linked to Vorcha with ties to the Terminus and anti-imperialist movements were found on the bombs. However, he knew that this could compromise a few operations in the Terminus systems, so a brief word to his agents and a tip to Omega's 'Queen' kept their security tight and her eyes sharp. To gain trust, however, TIM knew that he couldn't simply keep dropping hints and playing on her good nature - he needed to do something drastic that she would tie together to all of these anonymous sources, providing her with the realization that she owed _someone_ big.

The Illusive Man leaned back, he reached to his side but found that his cigarette had long since burned out. With a brief sigh, he pulled another one from the pack and lit up. It felt good, running through the motions. Light, puff, hold, release. Better yet were that these cigarettes were Martian - Martian soil had no insects or disease ridden soil whatsoever, so crops grown in controlled Martian environments had to fight nothing but time to grow, and it showed in their quality. The only cigarettes that were better than Martian cigarettes were Eden cigs, which had an all around better flavor and life - but they sacrificed in the texture and quality of the cigarette itself, which lost a lot of points in his book.

The Illusive Man leaned forward, pushing a few of the closer holograms to the side and holding out his hand. It took a brief second for the computer to register which distant, orbiting hologram he was grasping for, but it chose correctly when the pale blue projection froze in mid-air; The Illusive Man clenched his fist and pulled back, the hologram floated over to him and showed him a developing story on Omega. He read through it in minutes, burning through half of his cigarette as he did, but he nodded in a satisfied manner when he was finished. There was a small group of Gaian Rebel remnants hiding out on the station, at least eighty. They had boarded slowly, over the course of eight months, to fly under Aria's radar, and it seemed that they wanted to make Omega their next staging grounds, incorrectly assuming the Alliance wouldn't be so audacious as to send any strike teams there to burn them out. Fortunately for him, and for them, that wouldn't happen - but unfortunately for them, something worse _would._ Even SIGMAs and N7, the most likely choices for the job, had rules of engagement, but Aria's mercs had no such rules. He opened up a messenger and typed at lightning speeds, his pale blue keys making small pinging noises with each press.

After a quarter of an hour writing out an eloquently worded message, The Illusive Man sent it to one of his agents on Omega, along with a thousand credits so the junkie could get his next fix. Drug addicts were despicable, but they were also very easy to manipulate - deliver this message to this person and your payment will unlock, and you can go shoot yourself into a drunken stupor. If Aria was feeling generous, she may even let him drink himself silly and treat himself to a dancer, given that he was handing her information that would keep an Alliance strike team out of her station.

_Then, all goes well, she makes the connection. Dozens of sources with no true connection other than an anonymous benefactor and their species. Too vague to be the Shadow Broker, but too coordinated to be a small operation. She'll put two and two together and will be waiting for a more formal contact._ The Illusive Man smiled and put out his cigarette after another puff.

He pulled up another hologram, before he decided he wanted a change of lighting and silently raised his left hand, palm skyward. He waited just a moment and then lifted it steadily, the blinds on the windows surrounding his office lowering in intensity, allowing more unfiltered light from the dying star outside to enter the dark room and to reflect on the glass floor and ceiling. With a grin and a nod, he turned back to the hologram, which was a simple message - a report from the Intuitive Cell, promising results on the cloning technology recovered by Agent Lawson within the month.

_Now that would be an interesting prospect… I would finally have something more than a handful of specialists, assassins and operatives. I could move forward from the political game and have a direct impact on the galaxy… A superpower in the shadows._ He mused.

The pale blue holograms orbiting around him slowed to a crawl as a new one appeared on the outermost orbit, it in the shape of an envelope. The Illusive Man perked an eyebrow and called the hologram over. A small tap on the dusty, almost intangible surface revealed a simple message:

_Prometheus has stolen fire._

The steel-blue eyed man stared at the four word message for what felt like an eternity, his entire world crawling to a halt as its meaning slowly settled in. He had gotten a report hours ago that McGraw had arrived to study Object Mars, as per their previous agreement. He had prayed he wouldn't have to employ his contingencies, but it appeared his prayers had went unheeded.

The Illusive Man, once Jack Harper, sighed deeply and clenched the bridge of his nose, slowly closing his eyes as he said the damning words. "Julius, make the call. Seal the station, quarantine the éschatos cell, and be ready to jettison the entire wing if it comes down to it. I want active updates, start with what McGraw is doing right now and work your way back." He heard the blast door the led to his office slamming shut and locking with multiple heavy metallic clanks and thuds. The blinds instantly dimmed completely, allowing no light from the nearby star to penetrate the room, enshrouding it entirely in darkness, only pierced by the pale blue glow of the orbiting holograms. The holograms slowly started vanishing, to be replaced by active security feeds, reports from his heads-of-stations, and security forces, with the emphasis being the largest hologram hovering right in front of him, which gave him a live feed from within the same room as Object Mars.

The originally brightly lit room was now dim, several of the lights broken and malfunctioning. There was a maelstrom of spinning dust and debris, not unlike the dust-tech that made his holograms, but in the center, with his cybernetic hand firmly locked onto the alien artifact, was Christopher McGraw. His eyes were as wide as they could be, behind his glasses, his hair was whipping around in the wind generated by the swirling nanomachine vortex, his jaw was clenched tight and there was a very light scowl on his face, almost as if he were fighting some intense mental battle. The Illusive Man leaned his head forward slightly, seeing that there were abnormalities all across McGraw's body - black veins stretching all under his skin, his skin rotting and turning black on various parts. The 'corruption' looked like it was slowly growing its way up to McGraw's head, but the moment it hit his neck, it looked as if it hit a wall, forming a ring around his neck and throat and being completely unable to move further.

"McGraw… What are you doing?"

* * *

><p><em>Two Hours Earlier<em>

* * *

><p><em>Entry One:<em>

_While it isn't terribly difficult these days, getting to Mars, getting private property anywhere outside of the prefab cities and biodomes is somewhat impossible - no one in the Alliance or the MCP Agency trusts anyone to be intelligent enough to survive in the Martian wilderness on their own. _

_Regardless, it took me a while, mostly due to the bureaucracy of the Alliance handing out its research grants, but I finally was able to secure property and the proper equipment to facilitate long-term survival in the Martian wilderness. What better way to expedite the process than to buy a cave? Premade structure, I just have to seal it up and fill it with oxygen. The easiest part is honestly solving the gravity problem - just hit a button and I've got a stable, single G. Once I've made certain that my environment is conducive to long-term survival, it should be dusk. I shall perform an EVA and make certain my communications were not buried by the recent storm. _

_While Jack showed surprise that I was chosen over McGraw, both the boy and I understand why the Alliance approached me as opposed to him: Lineage. McGraw's father is the head of the AATF, and showing favoritism is unbecoming, and one must take all possible precautions when dealing with sensitive subjects such as this. We did, after all, find _functioning _technology in fifty thousand year old alien ruins, which were heretofore empty and decrepit._

* * *

><p>Christopher McGraw had the journal of his best friend memorized, he knew every word and every detail, from the most black and white cry for help to the most subtle twitch of the man's hand as he wrote the journal physically - with a <em>pen!<em> Ed was always one for the classics, it was one thing McGraw appreciated about the man. Sometimes, when he was bored, McGraw perused the man's journal and reread it, looking for something, anything he may have missed - that one detail that might help him truly understand what happened to him, and why he was doing the things he did. The journal never changed, the words written were never altered, the implications never different.

* * *

><p><em>Entry Twenty Seven<em>

_Seventeen hour day, yesterday, but I made a breakthrough. I managed to connect the device to power. I merely needed to expose it to unfiltered sunlight, and it activated. Of note, even in the low-pressure Martian atmosphere, its roar was deafening, almost like a trumpet blast mixed with a deep baritone bellow. _

_If I didn't know any better, however, I would say someone apart from the Alliance is watching me as I do this. The longer I examine this artifact, search it for clues as to its origin and attempt to find a way to connect it to a computer and data mine everything it has to offer, the more I feel as if I am being watched. Ironic, given that merely a century ago this planet was empty, and now despite there being seventy eight million people populating it, there isn't a soul except for mine for a great distance. I've heard plans to build an 'exclusion zone' around the ruins, more thorough than simple 'do not trespass' and unmanned guards, but I digress, I am sleep deprived. _

_I haven't felt so haggard since the final chess-team tournament, the day I first met Christopher McGraw. If anything, I miss him as a chess rival, and one could draw the conclusion that I miss Glade as well, though both it and I understood that the secrecy clauses specifically prohibited an AI in the ruins - lest they connect to the cloud and reveal to the entire Alliance that aliens existed at some point or another, and were watching us. _

* * *

><p>The shaggy-haired engineer was, to the eyes of the Cerberus assassin assigned to watch over him during his visit, dead asleep. He had made a beeline for his bench when he'd arrived on the ship, sat down, buckled up, and promptly passed out the second they hit Warp. He was so still it was hard to tell if he was even breathing, though where his body was still, his mind was not. Everything he had ever considered to be the cause, and every effect he had predicted to come to fruition, was blasting through his unconscious augmented mind faster than a ship could travel through the Warp. Even in his apparent state of unconsciousness, the engineer was an enigma: anyone else so deeply asleep would have assuredly been dreaming at this point, but the man's eyes didn't twitch at all, simply staring straight ahead behind his eyelids.<p>

The six hundred meter warship hurtled through warp-space at incomprehensible speeds without even a tremble, the only motions, noises or disturbances of any kind were those made by the ship itself, or the people inside of it. Even though the rec room the engineer slept in was a low-traffic area, there still visited some of the crew, and they made noise as would anyone else, and despite the low volumes of noise that would have kept anyone else from a restful sleep, McGraw stayed silent, snoozing silently.

There was a light chime, similar to that of a doorbell, before the ship's AI spoke. "_Exiting Warp in sixty seconds. All crew prepare for Warp-Deceleration."_

As the engineer slept, the assassin assigned to guard him sat down and secured himself to a chair, as several other crewmen did the same. Those who were unused or inexperienced with Warp travel were advised to secure themselves during the transition back to real space, it helped with the motion sickness felt by those still new to the travel. One might expect that few would feel such things in the modern age, but a large majority of the modern human population, while certainly aware of the ease of space travel, haven't even stepped on a spaceship or travelled through the warp. Truly, it was the minority that had grown accustomed to Warp travel, those being businessmen who travelled constantly, soldiers, marines, and sailors, and politicians. The assassin was certainly used to the travel, but he had nothing to prove by staying upright and on his feet, so he sat down and secured himself.

The moment the ship exited the Warp, and the lightly armored assassin felt the feeling of acceleration vanish from the pit of his stomach, McGraw jumped. His entire body twitched as if stuck with a cattle prod, and with a grunt, he lifted his head and raised his arms in a loosely defensive stance, disoriented by his nap and sudden awakening.

"_I didn't do it…"_ He grunted, preceding a deep yawn. "_Ah… Shit."_ He gazed around and blinked, "what'd I miss?"

"We have arrived, mister McGraw." The assassin spoke, startling the man again.

"Whoa! Dude, where'd you come from?" The enigmatic engineer gave the assassin a brief look up and down, his deep blue eyes narrowed as he took in all of his physical features and outward characteristics, analysing everything about him that was on display, "and where did you get that armor? Looks new. I didn't make it. Is that synthetic muscle?" He asked, pointing at the black, fibrous cords that were tightly wound together around the assassin's body and underneath his gleaming gold armor plating. "Do assassin's _usually_ wear gaudy golden armor plating? Or does it dull when exposed to direct light? Oh, wait, I see it -" He pointed at the man's chest, "that symbol, the Éschatos cell. That's not armor plating, it's hazmat gear. That's not gold, it's just colored like it." He squinted his eyes, "really dense, really thick… Damn, not a lot is passing through that, it'd have to be smaller than an atom, which is physically impossible, making you invulnerable to the diseases you may encounter in the cell."

The assassin blinked behind his helmet, unprepared for McGraw's instantaneous ascertainment of knowledge, or the fact that the man was just hitting his stride.

"You're also wearing a polarized visor, to hide your face and make doubly sure you can't give anything away… So let's make some conclusions based off of everything you've given away - the very reason the Éschatos cell exists, the object found and quarantined on Mars, you all turned it on and it started having adverse effects on the staff, thus the very very thick layers of protection. The effects have to be dastardly, perhaps even moreso than what was described by patient zero, Edward Spokane, in his journal, and you were ordered to enshroud yourselves entirely to protect yourselves from me, and to protect myself from you, in case the ancient machine is still obeying its long dead masters' orders, and trying to make everyone exposed, kill everyone else. The question now, however, is what all have you learned in the last twenty years, and what _more_ can I learn in the next twenty hours?" He finished with a grin.

The assassin stayed silent, his face - hidden by the visor, though it may be - was blank, with a slight furrow in his brow as he stared at the man, who at this point was merely showing off just to get a rise out of him. Instead of rising to the occasion and trying to match wits with McGraw, the assassin spoke simply, "I only know what I've been told. I'm not a scientist. I'm an assassin."

"Clever answer, ol' buddy ol' pal." McGraw snapped, as the ship burned off its excess velocity and slowed to a halt in front of a docking station. "But, riddle me this - what happens when a criminal confesses on the condition that his actions were not his own? Would not then other criminals, perhaps worse than the first, attempt the same? What are the rules when it comes to stuff like this? Is a machine deactivated if we can't see its parts moving, and does it cease working _just_ because it's old? The saying, after all, is that we don't make 'em like we used to." He smiled, "and that, ladies and gentlemen…" He groaned, placing his hands on his lap as the ship snapped into place with a metallic clank, "is why _I'm_ here."

* * *

><p><em>Entry Thirty Five<em>

_I have finally confirmed that the source of the voices and paranoia I have been experiencing is the object itself. It took eight hours to do so, but I also made contact with Glade back in Massachusetts, and he, along with his 'sister', cracked into Alliance Intelligence and sent me the data to confirm my theory - whether or not they were aware, this machine has been active for at least as long as we have been exploring the ruins. People began experiencing paranoia after prolonged time spent examining the ruins, hearing voices that weren't there, feeling like they were being watched - that is why the complex is known as the _Ruins, _because it suggests that it was ruined and therefor haunted. _

_They even came up with a name for it, within their social circles. They called it 'Prothean Paranoia'. _

_They had no idea that it was a machine, and it was influencing them. _

_I can feel it dragging at my mind, even right now, so far away from it. The voices it generates, they compel me to do things, it takes everything I have to disobey them and keep control of myself. It is strange, this compulsion almost feels as if it isn't - as if it is instead something I have a vested interest in doing. _

_The longer I spend in the ruins, the louder the machine gets and the more difficult it becomes to resist its temptations. Ironically, the only way to learn how to 'silence' these 'voices' is to study it, further exposing me to its effects. Notably, it is amazing that technology that predates the ruins is still working in such an apparently perfect manner, it makes one wonder what happened to these Protheans anyways, and if the beings who designed this machine were at all peaceful. _

_I cannot help but wonder if I myself am a test subject of the Alliance, as I am willingly exposing myself to this machine simply because it is alien and it is old. Perhaps they know, perhaps they always knew, and as I study and learn about the machine, they study me and learn what it does. _

_If that is the case, then my prospects are not good. I may need to contact Glade again and plan an escape, as they will not let me leave amicably. But before that, I must find a way to reverse the effects of this device. I would say I know there is a way, but every time I think such things, the voices seem to agree, going from livid, horrendous hissing voices to calm, warm, dulcet tones at the drop of a hat, the shift of a thought, only lending further credence that they don't want to hurt me, but much the opposite - they want me working perfectly, they want to control me, but to do so, they must first break me. _

_If it is my will that keeps me from being enslaved to the wills of an ancient, extinct race, to fight a war that has most certainly ended long before Man could even walk, then I will not give in. If I can soldier through this, I may yet be able to return home to my friends and family, perhaps even celebrate. After all, it is a momentous occasion: First Contact. I owe Christopher six dollars, they fired first. It was a brief engagement, and did nothing to start a war, but regardless. They call themselves 'Quarians'. _

* * *

><p>As he entered the station through the long, narrow connecting bridge, McGraw noticed that the Éschatos cell was less of a part of Cronos station, but more a completely isolated addition. It looked as if it was added on after the main station had been finished, and like it could be jettisoned at any moment, should the need arise. To McGraw, it made sense: potential biological, or, heaven forbid, extraterrestrial hazards and dangers to the main station could be avoided entirely in the event of a security breach. If anything went wrong, blow the support struts, send the isolated wing tumbling through space.<p>

Beyond the bridge connecting the ship to the station, and through the airlock, McGraw was presented with a small, sterile white clean room, within which stood two doctors, who had in between them a box resting upon a small table. With an eyebrow arced, McGraw walked forward and leaned towards the box, coming to a stop a few steps behind it. "And what have we here?" He asked, looking at the two hazmat-suited scientists, who respectfully backed up a step to give McGraw space.

One of the golden suited scientists cleared his throat, "your cleansuit, sir. It will protect you from Object Mars."

"So that's what you're calling it?" McGraw asked, slipping off his gray jacket and his shoes, before opening the box, within which was a suit similar to that which the assassin and scientists wore. "It reminds me of Quarian enviro-suits." McGraw remarked, as he picked up the synthetic mesh, "do I have to strip naked, or does it go on over clothes?"

"Just put the suit on, and then the plates, it will do the rest." Said one scientist.

"It was indeed designed after the Quarian life suits, few else in the galaxy know how to protect themselves so well from any and all potential pathogens." The other added, as McGraw slipped the mesh on over his torso, he shivered slightly as he felt the suit grow outwards to encompass his limbs. When it was done, he grabbed the golden, gleaming chestplate and weighed it in his hands, before he slipped it on and felt it compress against his chest, fitting itself to his body. Next he grabbed the helmet, which booted up its HUD immediately upon sealing itself against his neck. A wire slowly extended from the base of his spine, which connected to the spinal mount on the mesh suit, which gave him a fresh supply of isolated oxygen. Finally, McGraw a pair of of small golden plates to the backs of his hands, put back on his shoes, and threw his old gray jacket over his suit.

Now the epitome of isolated against the world, McGraw turned his head to one of the scientists, which the bio-suit's HUD identified simply as 'Bergins'. "Alright Bergins, lead the way."

* * *

><p><em>Entry Forty Eight<em>

_My hand has been forced - I have been isolated in the Prothean Ruins, stuck here with a legion of automated defenses programmed to kill anything without the proper IFF tag, and a machine that is now actively trying to coerce me into doing things I have no true desire of doing. _

_I am sorry… This machine, it is frustrating to be around, and even moreso to be stuck with. I have tried to explain to the Alliance, time and time again, that we need to bomb this area and destroy everything in it, but I black out every time I sit at my computer. I digress._

_First Contact went about as well as expected, and the Quarians brought some friends with them. The Sol System is a battleground, the Summer Fleet versus non-Quarian extraterrestrials. I was in the ruins, working on Contingency Alpha when I got the call. They told me to stay put, to not leave the ruins for any reason until further specified. I tried to protest, but for the life of me I could not lift my hand to respond to the message._

_These creatures, I learn more about them with every passing second, and yet I know nothing. They are not dead, far, far from it. Their war is not finished, very much the opposite - omnicide is their goal, that much I know. They try, with every passing second, to force me to quit, to force me to leave, they try to break me and make me serve them willingly, they want me to use my position, use my mind, use my _friends, _to work my way up the ladder, to get further connected, but for what reason I know not. _

_Initially, there was but the one - the creature from which this machine fell. When I was first exposed, it alone was the first that tried to ensnare me, to corrupt me, to indoctrinate me. As I described earlier, I merely attributed it to a lack of face-to-face interaction with other people, at least until I started feeling compelled to do things. I would want to leave my Martian home, to fly back to Earth and pursue lives I never even considered earlier, and then the logical parts of my mind would kick in and I would realize that these things I was being compelled to desire, I did not want them, not in the slightest. _

_Somehow, I wanted, and did not want, the same thing, at the same time. When the first creature realized that its passive attempts was insufficient, it instead placed its full focus upon me, trying everything it could to break me. For the first week, I did not sleep. For the second, I rarely ate. The things it whispered to me, the horrors it showed me, the promises it made if I merely obeyed. It was after the first month of its full-focused attempts to indoctrinate me that it realized it needed help, and a second creature, a second voice, joined the first. Soon came a third, and a fourth, and now, as Earth burns under alien assault and my friends and family are in impossible danger, I hear thousands of them. _

_Worse, is that a small part of me - the true, uncorrupted me, that is held together by will and by spite - I _want _to believe what they say is true. I want to believe that they will rescue me, my friends, my family, my race, if I give in and obey, if I become their puppet. But I know that they will do the exact opposite if I give in. The Quarians, their enemies, they all pale in comparison to the precursors that made this machine. The danger everyone on earth - the danger faced by Christopher, by Jack, by Danielle and Rose - it all pales in comparison to this. I cannot help them if I am enslaved to a race I do not understand, I cannot comprehend. _

_They see everything I do, and with every word I force myself to write, the pain in my head grows harsher, the voices grow louder and angrier, the compulsion to leave and sow the seeds of chaos stronger. It is all I can do to resist, and even then, as I have learned, sometimes it is simply not enough. The darkness, the shroud, that is their control is entrenched within my mind, and my only chance is Contingency Alpha. I cannot write it down, I must keep it hidden in that single, solitary safe haven of my mind, lest they learn what it is and the number and volume of the voices grows exponentially. _

_I __**will **__not let go, even though it will kill me. _

_I can only fight as long as they believe it impossible for me to win. Atlas held the celestial spheres for eternity, I can hold these creatures for one more week._

* * *

><p>The room that held the object was deceptively small, it had wide floors and long walls, but a very low ceiling, barely stretching three meters high. There was a multitude of tools spread about the countertops, tables, and shelves lining the walls, and McGraw found himself nodding lightly as he inspected the room. It, like the others, was sterile white and lit brightly, and in the center, seated upon a pedestal and within a see-through case was the artifact that was the artifact of McGraw's desires.<p>

The dark blue orb in the center of the room was seated atop a gunmetal gray plate, and was contained within two metal spires that spiralled around it in opposite directions. As McGraw walked closer to it, he felt a chill running, unbidden, down his spine. He saw in the depths of the orb what looked like smoke, shifting and oscillating, almost like a crystal ball.

McGraw observed the glass case that contained the object, watching as a set of scanners lowered around it and rotated, first horizontally, then vertically, leaving none of the metaphorical stones unturned. He knew that they were scanning every possible facet of the object, trying to discern everything they could, he had been kept up to date with this thing for as long as they had been studying it, his only condition that he be kept away from it.

_But then they slowed down, didn't they?_ McGraw thought, narrowing his eyes behind his bio-suit's helmet. _You thought you were clever… _He thought, leaning down and getting close to the machine, as he heard the door to the room shut and lock behind him, signalling with a final-sounding 'thunk' that he had six hours of unsupervised study. _You thought that you could hide behind the safety nets… Attribute everything to stagnation, a lack of direct supervision and study. You slowly tried to broach the subject, to try and convince Jack to convince me to let them open you up, expose themselves directly to you, remove those precious last safeguards before their suits. _He straightened up, turning to one of the countertops lining the walls and walking towards it. _You thought that, if you took your sweet, sweet time, that you'd slip under the radar. But even though pawns may go first, they are important unto themselves. It takes just one to bring back a queen. _

McGraw set to work, searching for a hardlight field generator. _You thought that, as long as you took your time, you would be fine. That I wouldn't notice. _He thought, raising a small orb and inspecting it closely. _But that was your biggest mistake. When Jack sent me that report, that simple request for advice, I knew you had spread your oily tendrils too far. Jack knows that I know what I'm talking about, more than most everyone in the known universe… He would not up and ask me if I had changed my mind yet. He would wait for me to broach the subject. _He took the orb and clicked it once, generating a small disc of physical light. _So when he sent me that report, I will admit, I was stunned. It all fell into place - what you did to Ed, what you're doing to Jack, how it managed to take them both by the horns, and it gave me an idea as to how Ed cured himself. I knew that I had to move, and fast, else the damage done would be irreparable. _He shut off the device and grabbed two more.

McGraw turned back to the entrance and walked back towards it, his footsteps making light taps on the floor as he walked, the dull throbbing hum of the ancient machine slowly gaining in volume, almost as if it knew what he was doing. With no warning, McGraw placed the three hardlight machines next to the door and turned them all on, and in less than a second, a barrier was created between him and the door, sealing him inside and away from the others in the station. Barely a second passed before he heard banging on the door, the assassin demanding to be let in, someone yelling to open the 'red folder'.

_You and I both know how this has to end. The only way to understand something like you is to kill you, but to kill you, I must understand you… So what third option is available to me? _He asked, turning back to the machine and strolling over towards it. _Well, it's simple, really: I must become you. You played your hand early on, and you failed to consider that you were playing against a master. As you continue to expose yourself to your indoctrinated agents, they learn who you are, they learn what you are, you allowed him to say as much. You are arrogant._ He arrived next to the machine, and lifted his hands to his head, removing the golden glass helmet and exposing himself to the open air, the system's computers flaring out in alarm, beeping annoyingly until a wave of McGraw's hand muted them.. _Your biggest mistake, however, was that you thought you could just try and ruin one of my closest friends and get away with it. He wrote everything down, and in your arrogance, you let him. It took me damn near eighteen years, but I finally found it, that _one _detail. _He slipped off the mesh suit and lifted his right hand, spreading his fingers wide, before he smashed the glass case open, and barely a second later, the machine came to life.

* * *

><p><em>Entry Forty Nine<em>

_Contingency Alpha is complete, I retrieved the artifact, and transported to my home. They know I am trying something, I can feel them clawing at my mind, trying everything they can to get me to stop. It is everything I can do to keep this hand writing. _

_If everything works, if I wake up again from the deep dark abyss, if I can bribe the ferryman, if I can cheat the universe of its one absolute, I will write again. If not, I know this journal shall find the right hands._

_I find it fitting that both I and my species are fighting wars, and that they began and ended with a discovery on Mars. _

* * *

><p>The dark blue orb flashed with a deep blue, fiery pulse, reminiscent of a biotic flare. The environment began to roar with the sounds of deep trumpets, and McGraw watched as the air itself came to live, the winds roaring as scores of infinitesimal machines joined together and began flying around the enigmatic engineer. He watched calmly as the raging rapids oily black machines crashed into him and tried to corrupt him forcibly, as they had done many others in the past. They found, however, that they were impeded, that they could make very little progress, as if the man were immune to their effects.<p>

"That's one theory proven." Said the engineer, as he raised a hand and let it pass through the flying machines, which stuck to his limb like salt on wet skin, yet fell to the ground like sand barely a second later. "Interesting." He brought his limb to his face, "your hypno-bots don't like inorganic materials." He rubbed the machines into his skin, watching with a fascinated gleam in his eyes as they seemed to vanish inside of it, almost as if his skin had drank in the machines and absorbed them. "Enough foreplay." He said after a few more passes through the flying nanomachines, he felt them trying to bore their way through his body, slowly making their way upwards to his head.

McGraw grinned deeply and grabbed the pulsating, roaring object with his right hand, his eyes growing wide as he made contact.

* * *

><p><em>Entry Fifty One<em>

_They're dead. The war took them. _

_Damn them all._

* * *

><p>McGraw saw everything, and nothing. His eyes opened wide, taking in the endless black expanse before them. He felt as if he were floating in the void, with nothing tethering him to any surface, just aimlessly floating, forever. He heard nothing, felt nothing, and smelt nothing, this lack of feeling went on for an eternity, before a deep baritone horn blast filled his ears and shook his very soul. From the blackness, a light was shown, and soon, hundreds more filled it, all serving to illuminate one single, solitary body and its lonely, blood red eye.<p>

The massive cuttlefish-shaped machine roared out one last time, its sheer size dwarfing that of the small human many million times. It was the size of a planet, and he, an ant. The machine's moon-sized, deep red eye rotated around and McGraw got the very distinct impression that it was focusing directly upon him, but barely a second later he realized that this planet-sized monster wasn't the only one giving him its undivided attention. There were millions more, all multitudes smaller than the first one, but they all awoke in sequence, bright white lights illuminating their aquatic bodies, and deep red orbs turning to focus upon the floating human, menacingly.

There was another baritone roar, the rumbling of a thousand horns, blasting as deeply as they could. McGraw's eyes widened as the titanic, planet-sized cuttlefish machine finally spoke, not with a voice that pierced the void of space, but one that resonated within McGraw's very mind.

"_**Human.**_" It said, its voice deep and booming; it spoke with a very blank tone, almost as if it were a menacing machine. "_**McGraw.**_

"Oh… _Shit."_ McGraw suddenly felt much smaller than he had ever felt in his life. _Ed fought Cthulhu in a battle of wills, and won._ The human thought. _But the question is, is this thing truly so massive, or is he just trying to intimidate me?_ "What are you?"

"_**We are your salvation, through destruction.**_" The titanic terror responded, succinctly.

McGraw narrowed his eyes, "Uh, whoa, what? What are you saving us from that would require our destruction? You sound almost experienced in the matter... Would I be correct in concluding you've done this before…" He traced his eyes up and down the enormous frame of the machine in front of him, "to the Protheans? Perhaps even those who came before _them?"_ An artificial extinction cycle, brought about by an army of building, or, in this one's case, _planet-_sized machines.

"_**We have seen the rise and fall of countless civilizations, we have preserved them all.**_"

_So they've been around a long time… These things weren't just what killed the Protheans, they could have been what took out whoever came before them, and so on and so forth… But that's not what I'm here for. _"What did you do to Edward Spokane?"

"_**The human, Spokane, was an anomaly, as are you. He was the only being to escape our enthrallment, as you were the only being to touch us as we touch you.**_" The creature boomed, McGraw felt the power of its celestial voice in the depths of his chest, making him wonder if he were truly floating in space, or if this was all one vivid, shared hallucination.

_If they're machines, it would stand to reason that they would have a cloud to share data and experiences, and potentially a hive mind… Perhaps I've tapped into this cloud, and what I'm seeing isn't a hallucination, but the entire horde from the point of view of the master of Object Mars._ Thought McGraw. _So they could potentially affect me, if that were the case… But, better yet, they just admitted that Ed survived and cured himself of their 'enthrallment'. Given how the room came to life when I touched the machine, they're using the machine as a means to grab attention, but it's only one part of the equation. _He cleared his throat, "you said you enthralled him, and that he escaped it. What is the purpose of enthralling someone, if your age-old experience and vast numbers could just steamrole the galaxy?" He asked, "you need us, but for what purpose?" He looked around, feeling a slight buzzing in the back of his skull as he saw that more and more of these cuttlefish were still coming to life and revealing themselves. How could there be so many of them, if they turned systematic galactic genocide into a dayjob? There was a piece of this puzzle that McGraw was missing, he knew it, just as he knew that the titanic eldritch abomination would refuse to answer him directly. "To assist in our destruction?" They were big, people were small, perhaps they simply needed thralls to perform the smaller-scale, precision actions.

"_**We do not destroy, we preserve.**_"

This gave McGraw pause, "a controlled burn… You aren't machines, you're synthetic, organic hybrids. Sentient starships… The collective knowledge, experience, and genetic information of billions of species… But merely 'preserving' us wouldn't be enough, not for action of this scale… You have to exist for a higher purpose, one that would require the preservation of information on such a scale. You're saving us from a worse fate, and it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to believe you would bring us back when this fate has passed. But that begs the question of _what_ specifically you're saving us from?" It suddenly dawned on McGraw that his sense of time could be being skewed by this experience, and a lot more time could pass back in the Éschatos Cell than he felt passed here, he had to end things soon, he had already gotten what he needed, everything else was just extra.

"_**Entropy.**_" Said the machine, "_**there is a realm of existence so far beyond your own that you cannot even imagine it. You exist because we command it, and you will end because we demand it. Our vanguard is already among you, its agent making preparations for your fall.**_" As it spoke, its moon-sized eye began glowing, energy gathering around it in massive wisps of a smoke-like substance.

"An interesting choice of words… You are not our destroyers, yet you are preparing our 'fall', implying destruction. So do you save us, destroy us, or both?" McGraw demanded of the machine, "this statement is false."

"_**We are not so lesser as to fall to a logic error. To understand us and our goals would be to understand the universe itself. We have existed since before your kind crawled out of the primordial soup.**_" It thundered.

_That pissed him off._ Thought McGraw, with a grin. "Implying billions of years of work and advancement. What problem cannot be solved with that much time?" And, he didn't ask, could he solve such a problem just to spite them and their methods? The machine was silent, prompting McGraw to continue. "Your sheer size, and your implied age means that you were made by a race that has entire _eras_ to further your design and advance beyond anything we can dream… Perhaps your 'entropy' was more direct than I thought. You don't fight any singular enemy, but rather you fight the fight itself, you combat the end of everything, by jump-starting that end yourself… But while matter and energy can neither be created _nor_ destroyed, so too can they not exist as we know it forever. Eventually something would happen that would beckon, or even _demand_ change… And here you are, creating your own weakness. Machines have clear limits, barriers they cannot surpass and things they cannot do. Even the most advanced AI cannot write a symphony like a living being can… They cannot _change_ as easily as a person can. So back to my original theory, an enemy you must fight."

The machine rumbled deeply, "_**you know not -**_"

"Entropy… Entropy, entropy… Perhaps light is the answer. Information can only naturally travel as fast as light can, perhaps the universe has already died and you are the vanguards of existence as we know it… But if that were true, you wouldn't seek to be our 'salvation through destruction'... I'm liking my bigger threat theory the more I think about it… But what could possibly make a species that could literally create robot Cthulhu piss its pants? What frightens a race that can create machines, which can then self-create more, that can literally control the minds of its organic enemies? What validates the cyclical slaughter and preservation of _countless_ species? Do you yourselves even know?"

"_**Enough.**_" The machine boomed, "_**these questions are pointless. You cannot understand why we are. Only by becoming us could you even begin to comprehend."**_

McGraw sighed deeply, feeling like he had learned enough, "let me tell you something about us humans, you know, give you an edge. Make it more fun. It doesn't matter if it's God himself, we'll fight anything that comes our way, and we _will_ win_._" He warned.

"_**Prepare yourself, human, for the arrival.**_" As its voice crashed into McGraw and rebounded around his soul, its enormous eye began glowing bright.

"Prepare _yourself,_ machine. I can promise you we will speak again one day, but when we do, you'll find that your biggest mistake was letting Edward Spokane free himself… Until then, ask yourself this. Titans war by making giants, and giants, by making men… So how do _men_ war?"

The eye flashed, and McGraw's world went from dark to pure white.

* * *

><p>In a space station, the ground shaking underneath one's feet was, truly, the very last sensation one would want to feel. Typically following the quakes of the floor meant that something was very wrong, any number of things, all of them meaning sudden and painful death, such as explosions, decompression, or the failure of critical machinery, could shake the floor, and when Jack Harper felt the floor tremble beneath his feet, he slowly sighed and hung his head. Hovering in front of him was a pale blue hologram, depicting the blank screen that followed Object Mars' detonation. The moment the Éschatos Cell's soldiers had breached the room, the ancient alien machine had detonated, shredding and burning everyone within in an enormous, scalding fireball and raging shrapnel.<p>

"_Mister Harper…"_

"Not now, Julius." It had all transpired so fast, Harper didn't even know what had happened. First he got a report that McGraw was here to study the object, then McGraw had sealed the room, and not ten minutes later the room had detonated. "Detonate the support struts, back up all of the data… Let the Éschatos Cell fall into Anadius." He sighed, slowly lowering his face to his hand and running his fingers through his hair, trying to wrap his mind around the suddenness of it all. His mind was reeling, his breaths shallow, his steely eyes wide, he was in shock.

"_Right away, sir, but you've got a call -"_

"Julius… Clear my schedule, and prepare a vessel to take me to the MSS. My friend just succumbed to the same madness that claimed Edward… Christopher is dead, and we are no closer to understanding what happened to Edward, as we are to understanding -"

"_Jesus CHRIST, is this what I can expect at my funeral?!"_ Demanded a new, lighter voice, halting Harper's words. "_Fuck, man, it's almost like you _expected _me to die. What, you think a ninety billion year old mind-bomb will take me out? It'd take a stick of antimatter to do that. Now accept my god damn - oh, wait, I did that for you."_ There was a pause, as the gray-haired fifth-column leader slowly turned his wide-eyed head to a pale blue hologram with a caricature of a speaker floating several feet from his head. "_Hey Jack!"_ The voice of McGraw said.

Staring at the call-in-progress hologram, Harper didn't know whether or not to believe his ears, or his eyes. "Is this a recording?" He asked the air.

"_No, that's too cliche."_

"And a fake-out death _isn't?"_

"_Well, the latter is less cliche than the former, but at least I didn't build it this time. I mean, last time I did vanish for, what was it? Six months? While I was with the twos? Ah, doesn't matter. While that explosion was big, I want my death to go out in a BIGGER bang! I'm talking, nuke, big. And besides - I'm never dead unless you've got a body. But that's not what I'm… Well, not there, for. Suffice to say that what happened to Ed did not happen to me. I was operating primarily on guesswork and a half-dozen theories with little base, but it looks like I was right, for the most part: You can't mind control a remote-controlled robot. Check, but not mate. I think I've been left more disturbed than usual, but it doesn't matter, we're all mad down here."_ Said the engineer, "_I'll be back soon, Miranda just came back with the Nomad, and boooooy is she confused that I'm still here - YES! I'm talking about you."_ He interrupted himself, the sounds of a very faint, but definitely confused woman pervaded the background. "_I'll be there in…"_ There was a loud noise, similar to that of a guitar chord being struck, and wind howling. "_Two seconds, give or take. First time self-testing the Traveller."_

"McGraw, what is going-"

"_Jack. Not, the fuck, now. Trust me, this is something that needs to be-"_ A pale green sphere expanded in the center of Harper's office, eliciting a sound similar to that which he had heard mere seconds earlier, and without even breaking sentence, McGraw strode through it, pushing a cart which had upon it a large, life-support like machine. "- Dealt with before it needs to be explained." He said, as the humming sphere shrank down and vanished like a deflating balloon. McGraw gave his glasses a tap on the temples, and then glanced around Harper's office, his head snapping back and forth as he saw what he was looking for. "Shit." He grumbled, "can't even see it…" He shook his head and slid his hand across his temples again, switching the glasses off. He made the motion to reach into the outer pockets of his jacket, but realized after he'd tried that he wasn't wearing the jacket, and his hand simply slid across his abdomen, giving him pause. "Oh… Right. Oops." He shrugged, and instead reached into his back pocket, now finding the object he was looking for: a lead pill box the size of his hand. "Alright, I need you to take this." Said McGraw, as he clicked open the pill box and retrieved one of two pills inside.

Harper stared at McGraw, his jaw slack and his lips barely parted in an expression of shock and befuddlement. First McGraw dies, then he comes back, somehow crossing several thousand lightyears in the span of seconds, now he wants him to pop a pill he retrieved from a lead case. The Illusive Man could barely comprehend it all, but a small part of him, the part that always questioned McGraw's 'method to the madness', finally became vocal enough to make Harper put his foot down. McGraw had kept secrets from him, refused to explain his ridiculous means, given him roundabout answers, and had been all-around frustrating to boot, and now here - on the one subject they both _agreed_ that was dangerous beyond measure - he was refusing to answer questions and was acting worse than usual.

_He had Spokane's notes, he knows what the broadcaster does… How can he expect me to just _trust him _on this?_ Harper asked himself. _He was exposed to the machine, how can I believe anything he does? The machine's creators, they could be trying to use him to get to me._ His eyes slowly gravitated towards the pill, his head beginning to hurt from the events of the day, from all of the double-think, and worse, the day _still_ _wasn't over._ There was an urgent report from the Teltin facility he had been putting off reading.

Understanding Harper's silence, McGraw spoke up, "I need you to trust me, Jackie. Now, more than ever."

Harper sighed, looking his friend in his deep, blue eyes. _I can't take this pill. He has to know this… He's been exposed to the machine, I can't. I can't trust McGraw… He's just... _ His eyes narrowed, as McGraw slowly inched the pill back to him, as if silently questioning whether or not Harper was going to take it. _Wait… Did I… Did call him McGraw? Did I call Edward, Spokane? I don't… Do that. Others do, but they're my friends, I give them that respect. I trust them._ The steely-eyed man slowly widened his eyes as the pain in his mind backed away, almost like a predator making a tactical retreat, so its prey would begin doubting the whole encounter. _I trust him… So why did I not, just then? It can't be the machine, it's in another wing that had its own self-contained environment, nothing it contained, nothing it could do, it couldn't have made its way in here. Even if it made its way into Cronos station, it can't have gotten in here, the air supply is cycled hourly, it's soundproofed inside and out, scanned for bugs daily… This station is impenetrable, this office a fortress, the single most well-protected room modern technology, and even McGraw himself, can design. It can't have been breached… Except… By something more advanced._ Suddenly the pain was back, almost as if the predator knew that its prey was onto it, and was pressing every advantage it had, trying to hurry up and kill its prey before it escaped. _I've been compromised._ He slowly looked down at one of his hands, barely even able to trust it to reach across and accept McGraw's answer.

"What does it do?" He asked McGraw, biting through the pain in his mind.

"It'll help."

Harper nodded, and slowly reached forward, having to force himself to do even that. He took the pill, feeling something in the back of his mind telling him that this was a horrible idea, everything about this decision going against his better judgement. He took a look at the pill, it looked to be filled with some kind of sand-like substance that shifted around with every movement. Harper recognized it pretty quick - nanomachines, very typical McGraw. McGraw was telling him through this simple, subtle detail, that he was still in control, that he was still himself. With a great feeling of trepidation, he took the pill and swallowed.

McGraw nodded, "good… You aren't too far gone. Now, I'm going to be honest with you… You aren't going to like my solution." Said McGraw, as he popped his own pill, and walked over to the life support machine. "I think the only reason you are recoverable is because of the considerable precautions we both took in designing this room. Had they been any lesser and we wouldn't be having this conversation." He said, as he pushed the machine closer to Harper, and retrieved a fold-out chair from underneath the cart. "But that's a conversation that's going to have to wait. Simply put, in order to save you and me, I'm going to have to kill us." He held up a hand, prompting Harper to hold his questions. "I know, I know, not a good idea. But, it's what Ed did. He hid it pretty damn cleverly… How do you hide something from the smartest men in the universe? You shove it right under their nose and wait. He wrote it in his journal, that he _would_ have to die in order to save himself. That his solution _would_ kill him. There was no 'maybe', no room for debate, only absolutes. He was literally telling us what to do… Soundwaves don't require _death_ to remove, you only need to mute it. So the question…" Said McGraw, as he began setting up the machine. "... Is what _would_ require such harsh measures. So I started thinking, and my little robot's encounter with Object Mars confirmed it. Those creatures use nanomachines - very… Very… Very small nanomachines. Smaller than atoms. They use them to control their indoctrinated thralls. It sounds like something out of a mid twenty first century sci-fi cliche, but think about it. Nanites influence the chemical flows in the brain, making their goals seem more pleasurable and positive. Add on the soundwaves to trigger various responses in the brain, and also as a means to actually speak to their thralls.

"But the problem is the power source… But my robot's exposure answered that too. They feed off of the bio-electricity of the host to power themselves. That is why Ed had to kill himself. No power, they stop functioning. And with how damn small they are, they'd just… Fall. No power to keep them afloat and in the body. In order to clean yourself of their influence, you have to die. After that, it's just the simple matter of restarting the body." He turned, and nodded to the pillbox. "That helps keep your body in stasis. It doesn't keep you alive, but makes it much easier for this -" He tapped on the life support machine, "-to hit the… Reboot button, so to speak." The machine beeped in the affirmative, "and I've got Gladys riding shotgun on this one, so she'll make sure nothing goes wrong." He set up a few IV's, and pulled out two vests connected to the machine by wires. "Now put this on." He tossed Harper one of the vests, "and let me set this up…" He said, jamming one of the IV's into Harper's arm.

"What will happen to everyone else on the station?" Harper asked.

"In order to purge the air of all of the nanites, we have to vent the station. In order to deactivate any of the nanites still present, we have to hit the place with an EMP. In order to make sure there are absolutely none left, we have to decontaminate the place." Said McGraw, as he put on his own vest and hooked up his own IV. He gave Harper an oxygen mask, and strapped his own to his face.

"I see." Said Harper, "it will take time to replace them all."

"I think your exact words were, 'mine will be stocked by those who are good in all things, and excel in none.'..." Said McGraw, "it's not too hard to replace people like them." He said, as he sat down in his own chair, and leaned his head back. "Besides, I'm pretty sure there are a lot of people out there who would love to pay back their favors to the Illusive Man. Twelve hundred people out of a species of billions…" He inhaled deeply, "they aren't the only jacks of all trades."

Harper nodded, "that is true." He said, sitting down. "I was referring to how long it will take to clean their bodies, let alone how long it will take to replace everything."

"Gladys and Julius don't sleep, and we've got a _lot_ of bipedal drones here." Mcgraw exhaled, "you ready? Everything changes after this. They'll know we're onto them. Worse, they'll know we're beyond their ability to control. They'll be preparing for _war."_

"Then so will we." Said the Illusive Man, as he settled into his chair and felt a great, brief weight fall over his eyes, before he lost consciousness.

* * *

><p>There were few moments in Tech Sergeant Grant's day-to-day that made him smile, mostly due to the asinine work he had to deal with every moment of every day. "My computer is too slow. My connection vanished. The AI stopped talking to me in the middle of a conversation, I may have spilled some water on the projector." Easy solutions to nearly every problem, but not a single person learned from these problems and figured out how to replicate the solutions on their own. It was grating, frustrating, and, most of all, annoying, but seven o'clock, on the dot, every day, was a moment the dark-eyed man could look forward to.<p>

"Hey hon." He said, adjusting the camera on his monitor. "Can you see me?" He asked, leaning his head down and reaching over to change the position of his lamp, so the light wouldn't shine so brightly against his dark skin.

"_Uh… Yeah, there we go."_ He heard his wife say, after a few moments. With how far away she was, time lag generated fifteen seconds of silence between responses, but those fifteen seconds were worth it. "_Hey Grant, how're things out in deep space?" _She asked, with a wide smile playing across her pale face as Grant's own came into focus.

"'I spilled water on my computer and now it doesn't work. I tried plugging it back in but then it started smoking, help.'..." Groaned Grant, hanging his head for a moment. "We're supposed to be some kind of think-tank, but everyone here can't even work the auto-lacers on their shoes." He shook his head, "now, where's my baby girl at? You know how long I've been waiting to see your faces?"

His wife smiled many thousand light years away, and reached out of view of the camera. "_Hey… Daddy wants to say hi!" _She said lightly to a sleeping baby. With a light groan, she picked her up.

Grant picked up on it, "she that heavy? What've you been feeding her, Mel?"

"_Steak, chocolate, things that are bad for you."_ Said the woman, as she brought the baby into frame, cradling her close to her chest but also away enough so the father could see its resting form. "_She's growing like crazy, I tell you." _

"Got that from my side." Grant said, adopting a tough expression and lifting his lanky arms up in a body-builder pose. He and his wife chuckled, "spoke with my supervisor today, got my leave for next month, should be there in time for her birthday."

His wife smiled another beautiful smile, lightly rocking the baby as she did. "_That's great, she'll be so happy. Oh - Jacob stopped by a few days ago, he's being deployed with the corsairs. They found Manheim! They think the war will be over by the end of the year."_

"Oh, good, I've been getting tired of that crap. Rebel propaganda, anti-rebel statements, bla bla bla. Almost as annoying as people - oh, yeah, listen to this. I've gotten eight complaints the last week alone, people think their's a computer virus going around. They think that it's making their speakers play trumpet blasts. I've checked and cleared eight computers, absolutely nothing. Brought it up with security, they've gotten complaints about the same thing. I'm thinking one of the new recruits brought in a trumpet or something, and he's been fucking with everyone." Grant said, with a grimace.

"_What a…"_ The woman peered down at the baby, "_... Rude word."_

"I think you wanted to say dick."

"_One of these days, she's going to repeat you."_

"She's eight months old. That'll be a while, I've got time." Grant waved it off. "Anything interesting happen today?"

She shrugged her shoulders, "_not… Much."_ She said, leaning over and depositing the baby back off screen. "_Today was my day off, I just spent it keeping up here. I think I spent an hour trying to find my watch, though. Guess where it was?"_

"Here."

"_In my pants. The ones I was wearing. I literally turned on watch to use the flashlight, and sat there and stared at it for a few minutes."_

Grant clapped, "nice. Nice job." He said, before the lights went out and the emergency red lighting. "Ah shit." He groaned, "I knew it was coming."

"_Oh? What's going on?"_

"Evac-drill. I'll call back in an hour… Love you." He said with a nod and a smile, before he cut the call and stood up. He cleared his throat and called out to everyone in his section of the tech wing, "alright, folks. Just another drill, I need everyone to -" He didn't finish his sentence, the the entire station went dead silent as its air was vented to the void in less than thirty seconds.

Grant and several others, after recovering from having all of the air in their lungs vanish, scrambled for the emergency O2 tanks as the others were too stunned and in too much pain to even get to their feet. Grant's lungs were burning and his vision was darkening, but when he made it to the tanks, the lights in the station vanished and he felt his feet leave the ground. He hit the wall with a silent, jarring thud as his momentum in the vacuumed, gravity-less room carried him forward. Before he could even recover,the temperature the room began climbing exponentially as the heat shields were partially lowered and the inside of the station began cooking under the intensity of Anadius. Lasers soon began to sweep over the individual rooms and corridors, frying anything that wasn't already cooking under the partial exposure to Anadius' heat.

Grant, barely ten seconds after the heat shields were lowered, blacked out. When the decon lasers began sweeping his room, his bloated, burned body was flash-fried and turned to ash.

In less than an hour, Cronos Station was empty and lifeless.

* * *

><p>In the deep void of space, a man sat in his spartan room aboard a massive spaceship. He was dressed in an expensive suit, though unlike most occasions, it was not done up tight and his tie was hung up on the wall. He sat in front of his computer, its light counter-balancing the bright lights fixed upon the ceiling.<p>

_Director Serios, I advise you remember who buried your medical report. What I want is simple, I know you know this, but for thoroughness' sake, I shall repeat myself: I want one of the weapons you recovered from Manheim. Just one. You can lose one. One can fall out of a ship. I can find it. _

_You do not want me to take one, but I will if I must. _

_-Edward Spokane._

"Glade, report on the pods."

"_Project Genesis is running on schedule, Mister Spokane. An update on Project Hippo: John Shepard S2-15's augmentation ceased activity. McGraw was nowhere to be found. Likely assumption is that an AI discovered it and deactivated it on his order. I believe the tension between the Ones and Twos will skyrocket because of this, but given the way they were created, they won't pursue war yet."_

"Compounded with Manheim, it is likely the Twos' trust has been shaken… Were Shepard to meet his mother, it would likely shatter entirely. Make a note, this can be used." Said Spokane, as he opened up another email, this one from one of the Councilors in Citadel space, Spokane smiled.

_I don't know who you are, or how you got this address, but I can assure you my daughter is dead. She has been for three centuries. I will send this along to a Specter, you can expect to be found very soon._

_Tevos Voria, Councilor for the Asari Republic. _

"_I also have news from Cronos Station, when you are ready."_

"Jack's little fifth column…" Said Spokane, as he began typing up a response.

_Saira Voria, born 1801 CE, vanished 1922 CE during a brief trip through the attican traverse. The remains of her ship and those of several of its crew were discovered, but hers remained undiscovered, and were declared unrecoverable due to it being likely she was blasted from the ship and her corpse sent careening through space forever. An investigation was launched and it was determined that her ship was raided by pirates, notably with no direct connection to any major slave-trading organizations. As the year went on, millions more, a majority of them Asari, would vanish, from the traverse, the Terminus, and even Citadel space. Due to the very low number when compared to the overall Asari population, it was simply attributed to pirate actions._

_Congruently, the Asari slave trade in outer Hegemony space experienced a marked increase due to the introduction of multiple million Asari slaves. The Batarian Hegemony's economy experienced a notable uptake for several decades as the slaves were bought, traded, sold, and bought again, the massive funds used to purchase various goods and generate more jobs. The end of the last Batarian Recession spread outwards, their increased spending flowing towards other Citadel races and territories, generating jobs and creating more money on your side as well, as the galaxy itself forgot about the missing Asari under the continued gleaming of the golden age, which itself only ended when first contact was experienced with the Human Systems Alliance. _

_Now, Councilor Tevos, the question is why do I reiterate history you yourself experienced?_

_Simple: Your daughter was not killed by pirates, she began her journey down the modern Stream of Slaves. Where before the slave trade was direct - raid, sell to buyers, spend money, repeat - as time went on, it got more complex so as to combat discovery. In modern times, it begins with a general desire - in this case, one for Asari. This desire drives sellers to send out contracts to slaver rings, who then send out smaller portions of those payments to lower-scale raider and mercenary groups, with bonuses handed out to those who brought in high-quality products. _

_Over time, it became even more complex. Holding worlds, dummy corporations, bulk orders, the days of simple kidnapping and selling have long since gone. My personal favorite is one particular company that, itself, cannot legally be tied to the slave trade, but their multiple subsidiaries all hold property on various backwater and uncharted planets, and on this property are slaves. Hundreds, thousands, and, with some of the more popular species, _millions _of them, all simply kept and stored there, so they can drastically reduce the time it takes to gather product and sell them. This company even hires contractors out to kidnap and enslave during dry spells - simply because they know that the time will come that the demand for various species will come up again. These days, what with how entrenched in the trade they are, they are powerful enough to influence the demand itself. The company is worth multiple billion credits, and is ironically run by Turians. _

_This all plays into you. Your daughter, for fifty years, 'rode' this 'river', so to speak, until she landed on her new permanent home. She was handed down from generation to generation, like a living heirloom, ever faithful and ever broken. She was property for three hundred years, and has experienced such a life for longer than she lived under you. When she was rescued by the Alliance, she was brushed through the system by a well-connected OD3 and his daughter, but suffered a nervous breakdown in the center of New York City. Two people died, one was crippled in his left leg. The OD3 was court martialed, his daughter is trying to get a job on Mandal so she can see Saira once again. _

_A quote from one of Deborah Vanice's reports:_

"_Her earliest memory is from a decade before she was enslaved and sent to the Tureg holding center. She recalled her mother wearing a deep red dress with no back, and herself wearing a conservative, dark green one. Her mother was running for Citadel Council, and had brought Saira to a fundraiser ball. During this ball, her mother introduced her to a Hanar by the Face Name of 'Assists the Downtrodden', though many adopted the name 'Doas' for short. As it turned out, Doas was there as repayment for a favor from her mother, who was the deciding vote on a standardized healthcare vote for the homeless on multiple outlier planets. She remembered little more beyond that, but shared a story in which Doas explained to her, gently, what it was to be homeless. He said, and I quote her here, 'to be homeless is not to lack a home, but rather a roof over one's head and a bed beneath one's back. However, home is where one belongs, and no living creature _belongs _on street corners.' This must have had a profound effect on her, to have survived three hundred years of slavery. Anecdotally, researching this Hanar revealed a long and influential political career, that started with a healthcare vote on Balias-Premal, an Asari colony upon which current Asari councilor Tevos began her career, perhaps lending credence to her story."_

_I believe I need not explain anything more to you, but I shall attach her medical file to this message as well. Unfortunately, I know the skill which many Spectre hackers possess, and I fear I may be found through these messages. While this does not concern me, I would think it would concern you, because should I be confronted by a Spectre about these messages, your daughter will be moved, and convinced to change her name as a part of the recovery process, and her files lost. The OD3 who brought her to Earth will be killed, his daughter sent to the wrong rehabilitation center, with much more violent patients, where her naive self's death will be a foregone conclusion, and even the unfortunate Batarian family that lost their generational Asari slave will find itself doing time for treason and sent to mining camps on various accident-prone asteroids._

_You will never have the chance to find her again._

_Good day, Councillor. _

_-Edward Spokane._

The dark-haired man leaned back and read over his message again, before sending it. "So, Cronos."

"_His facility went silent minutes ago. The atmosphere was purged from all sections, including his secure office, and the entire station was bombed with an electromagnetic pulse and decontaminated. My sister is currently helping Julius with the station's continued operation."_

Spokane turned to gaze at the hologram projector, which had hovering above it a grass-green AI in an expensive-looking three piece suit. "Oh really?" Said the man, as he leaned back in his chair and looked to the ceiling. "It appears as if Christopher has caught up… Knowing him, he came to the same conclusion I did, perhaps because of my missing journal." He grinned, "I guess now we can play our game with no distractions. I would say It should take a week for him and Jack to revive themselves… A week without Christopher McGraw… I wonder what would happen." He thought aloud, with a light smile on his handsome features.

* * *

><p><em>AN:_

_So, this chapter. _

_It was originally was going to be one hell of a lot longer, in that I was going to cut from McGraw and TIM sleeping to them waking up, but two things stopped me from doing that, the first being that I felt this chapter was feeling too rushed, so I decided I'd chop it in half and move from there. _

_The second was that I realized that if I effectively doubled the chapter's length and started packing on the exposition, it'd defeat a lot of the impact from the chapter. I mean, McGraw talked to Harbinger, I can't just let that be glossed over. _

_Though, I hope I kept with Harbinger's character. Thing always struck me as an arrogant, 'holier than thou' kind of guy, and those kind of folks rarely give straight forward answers. _

_Anyways, allow me to explain why this chapter took a week longer than others. _

_Simply put: I forgot about it. It was never written. I was looking through the drafts of later chapters, and suddenly realized that the whole 'McGraw is supposed to go to Cronos' arc hadn't been touched on again. I had to write a mega-whopper of a revelatory _and_ expository at the same time, whilst also not answering everything so as to keep the interest going, and I had a week to do it. _

_Writer's block didn't help - this was a chapter that had to be executed pretty damn well, _especially_ coming off of the last one, which I'm very glad to see was well received. _

_So, I've got two more chapters in the woodwork before I take my next break [you know, to stockpile more chapters and do some work on other stories], the first being the last of the Interlude chapters, and the second being the one that sets up the next arc. _

_With the last Interlude chapter, I run into the same problem as this one - it completely escaped me and is, as of yet, unwritten. So we may be looking at another week or two until the next one, but if you've been following them as closely as I hope, you'll know I've been building up one whopper of a battle scene, so I'm hoping that will make up for it. _

_If you're ever looking for news, I'm always updating my FFN Profile and tweeting my thoughts -at-ProfFartBurger. _

_'Till next time, folks!_

_-PFB_


	42. Entr'acte

_A/N:_

_If you find any grammar/punctuation errors in the following monster of a chapter, please allow me a little slack. I'll explain at the end._

_Also, hey there!_

_Without further ado,_

_We're off!_

* * *

><p><em>Entr'acte<em>

* * *

><p><strong><em>Entr'acte<em>**_** - **_

_N. _

_An interval between two acts of a play or opera._

* * *

><p>Preparing for combat, even for a BattleVector, was a solemn experience. It was incomprehensibly difficult to predict when a battle was coming unless one was planning to instigate the battle themselves, but this one time in few was an exception. The Second Temple was currently one of the most heavily protected, heavily watched places this side of Innsua city. For every square meter, there were at least two satellites orbiting geosynchronously to watch over it. For this reason, the BattleVectors manning these satellites were able to see the green sea of heretics roaring across the planet in their planes, trains, and automobiles. At the rate they were travelling, they would reach the Second Temple within twenty hours, and their near constant velocity and lack of any pauses or breaks to sleep and refuel indicated that they had no intention of slowing down until they reached their objective.<p>

So the army of BattleVectors had eight hours to prepare, eight hours to fortify the Second Temple, eight hours to turn it from the second most heavily protected place in the known universe, into the second most fortified, impenetrable structure in known space. The very best of the very best of the BattleVectors were all there to ensure the job would be done. They wanted it to take _three_ war forges, ten HellFire cannons, and even a liquid fire satellite to be able to even have a chance to piece their fortifications.

_Unfortunately for us… We have none of those things. _Thought Jorban Sal'Naa, as he and several other Lancemen stared at a tactical map of the Second Temple and the surrounding area. The title Lancemen was something of an honor in and of itself - it was the highest possible rank underneath Praetorian. To be a Lancemen meant that one could lead legions of BattleVector and Tyyrahn simultaneously on the field of battle, and be able to utilize both of their skillsets to their absolute maximum potential. One Lancemen could take control of a battle and decide victory, but twelve, in the same room, all dedicated to victory at all costs, could turn the tide of a war.

Twelve Lancemen, in the same room, dedicated to victory at all costs, where victory entailed not letting a single unenlightened being enter the holy grounds, could do exactly what they wished. "Spread the Wraiths out amongst the wooded areas. Tell them to do whatever they desire." Said one BattleVector, "the heretics will know to expect them, but being prepared is a far cry from being able. Thousands of Wraiths in one enclosed area, not even an insect could enter and make it through alive."

"The Winged can keep control of our skies. With ground forces assisting them they would be untouchable." Said another, "their mounted energy cannons would burn anything on land or in sky."

"That could put friendly ground forces and the Wraiths at risk." Said a third, before he was interrupted by Jorban.

"Not if we send the air forces to strike at them preemptively, keeping their air from reaching us." He said, "half of our Winged strike at their heart and keep the Insurrectionist Air from advancing. The remaining half hammer them as they reach our defensive line, leaving their assault forces weakened and unable to break our defense." He explained, gesticulating with his hands, pointing at the map, and drawing lines to illustrate his point. "When they reach us, they will meet a wall of ballistic cannons. Stagger our defense, the outermost wall has the largest caliber weapons. If they breach that, they reach the second wall - energy lances creating a blinding wall of solar heat. The final hardy few who penetrate the second wall reach the Berserkers." He explained.

"Why Berserkers last? Why not have them first, place the ballistic cannons second, make the energy weapons our final line of defense? We've trained with those since we were Oathers - there is no weapon we know better."

"That is exactly why they are second. Every one of us, from the simple BattleVector to the highest Lancemen, to even the Praetorian himself, knows Energy Lances inside and out. We could disassemble, clean, and repair them, missing both eyes, deaf, half dead, and unconscious, and still aim and fire a kill-shot. So they are our second option - when they are the most tired, we are our most skilled. And should they get past that barrier, they shall be unfit and too exhausted to engage the berserkers in a melee."

The other Lancemen looked dubious for a moment, but quickly came around as they saw the logic. First deafened and shell-shocked by the walls of gunfire, then burned alive by a barrier of lasers, then finally slaughtered by fresh and ready to fight berserkers. Escalating force and energy consumption, leading to an exhausted encounter with one of the most feared and brutal melee fighters in the worlds.

"One concern, even if we cut the number of Wraiths in half, the wooded and surrounding areas would still be too saturated with Wraiths. They would begin to hinder each other due to proximity." Another Lanceman brought up. "What if we sent them to harass the army? They could make them exhausted and battle weary before they even hit the first wall."

Several nodded, "make it so." Said one.

"We have eight hours. The fortifications must be the thickest and strongest at the center of the quarry. We must block all possible entrances, and leave guards at them, inside and out, just in case." Said Jorban, "I propose that each layer of the wall has at least one Lanceman participating, and they all feed information and reports to one who controls the battle centrally, from within the temple."

"And who would that be?" Asked one Lanceman, "who would willingly distance themselves from the most glorious battle of the insurrection?"

"You mean -" Another spoke up, leaning forward and pointing a claw at the man, the low, golden light reflecting off of his dull green scales. "- who would have the _honor_ of _leading_ this battle. Win or lose, it shall forever be marked in the history books - the day the BattleVectors discovered, and protected, the second temple of the Hoomanisire. Amen, I would volunteer, but it would take someone of extreme skill and cunning to lead such a massive army of BattleVectors, even more so to ensure that the temple receives as little damage as possible during the violence." He said, placing his hands on the table and leaning upon it heavily. "And given… Our imminent arrival, this is not a battle we can afford to lose, at all."

"Did I miss something?" A Lanceman asked, scanning the crowd for someone willing to give an answer.

"The Praetorian is to arrive within the week. He is to speak again to the Batarians, to give them an answer as to our stance in their war." Said Jorban, "but that matters not. It is merely incentive to win, not our reason. Our reason is that this place… This temple." He took a few steps back, waving his hand around the spacious room, indicating the intricate carvings and ancient metals. "It is holy ground. If but one heretical, unenlightened insurrectionist steps upon it, we have not only failed our charge, but our god. They will ransack this temple, caring not for the countless meanings in every carving, or the hidden lessons in every ancient word, they will only care for weapons they could find, or gifts they could steal." He turned back to the table underneath the room's lone light source. "Think of the damage they could do, even without those things. They _won_ a _temple._ So many countless people could lose faith, not just in us, but in the Hoomanisire. If he allowed the unenlightened to steal his temple, then surely it is proof that he has abandoned us, and there is no chance to win back his faith and love. It would be chaos.

"This battle could be the deciding factor between a continued age of enlightenment, or a second dark age… And I do not think that even the combined might of the Tyyrahn and the BattleVectors of modern times could prevent it." He said, placing one finger on the center of the map, the very temple they all stood in. "Whether or not the best of all of us approaches… Whether or not we know that we have brothers beyond our stars… Whether or not we even believe such a thing is possible, given its difficulty… We must win. We must show the gods that, no matter how many tests he gives us, we will pass every one."

The room was silent, as the dark-scaled BattleVector's words settled in. All eyes either met his deep red orbs, or stared at the map he touched. Everyone present knew he was correct, everyone present knew just how vast the stakes were. This wasn't a simple battle with the insurrectionists, it was the pen that wrote the title of the next chapter of Saltorian history. The Day the BattleVectors lost, or the Day the Hoomanisire Smiled?

"I volunteer Lanceman Sal'Naa to lead our stand." Said one BattleVector, with confidence in his deep voice.

"I second this motion."

"As do I."

And before Jorban knew what he had done, he found a sense of pride and of duty welling up in his chest, as, one by one, his gun-brothers all supported his right to lead the battle for the second temple. If they won, it was because of his strength and skill. If they lost, it was because he allowed them to. They trusted his skills, enough so that they felt he should lead their efforts.

Jorban clenched his wide jaw, and firmly nodded. "I shall not let down any of you. _Amen."_

* * *

><p>The mechanical clanking of the slide of a 1.5 caliber machine gun being racked was once described as the most terrifying sound one would never hear. Before the battle began, it went unheard because the enemy was not yet close enough to be killed. In the middle of battle, the sound went unheard in the chaotic maelstrom of gunfire and explosions. After battle, it went unheard because the weapon was to rest. The thick 'clanks', the metal 'chunks', the sounds of the bullets sliding into position, the click of the safety being removed, and the light groans of metal being stressed as Saltorian hands rested on the triggers, it all resulted in one single message.<p>

_Whosoever shall step in front of this weapon…_ Prayed a young BattleVector of two hundred years, one fist clenched in front of his hearts, _I pray they shall know the wrath and fury of the righteous guard. I pray they suffer in their final moments, and are led to the peaceful embrace of the one true god… _He heard, in the distance, the thunderous claps of explosions, and the sonic booms of jets breaking the soundbarrier. The roar of the enemy army's vehicles grew closer and closer, as did the screams of those cursed to enter the forests and wooded lands claimed by the Wraiths. _I pray we who live and breathe the greatest of ironies are successful in our charge, and to those of us who fall… I pray we find peace, for the first and last time._

"_Amen!"_ He heard someone chant, long and drawn out, trying to draw everyone else into it. "_Amen!"_ The BattleVector called out, emphasizing each syllable, his deep voice struggling to overcome the distant sounds of war.

"_Amen!"_ Another BattleVector responded, soon joined by two more, who were joined by four, and before long, every BattleVector manning every living wall was chanting the ancient word, the sheer number of thundering voices shouting in unison caused chests to shake, ears to ring, and when they arrived, caused the advancing enemy forces to doubt their motives for just a moment. Such was the power of the ancient word, such was the mystery - so few truly knew what it meant, only that it spelled doom when uttered by a BattleVector.

"_Amen!"_ The first living wall roared, as the ground began shaking from the force of all of the vehicles beating it on their path to the Second Temple. "_Amen!"_ Thousands of men, aged from eggborn to twilight eyed, hundreds of vehicles, decades to centuries old and outdated, they all rounded the bend and began rampaging down the long, straight road that divided two forests and the quarry. "_Amen!"_ Whether the heretics knew it or not, they had been bottlenecked - to enter the forests was to subject themselves to the Wraiths, and to continue sprinting down the road was to have them face a wall of gunfire.

"_Remember, men."_ Came the voice of Lanceman Sal'Naa, into the ear-pieces of all assembled BattleVectors.

"_AMEN!"_

"_They abandoned their faith, so we shall abandon our mercy. We fight not for our lives, but for the glory of the Hoomanisire. Stand strong, and let not a single heretic step foot upon these hallowed grounds."_ His deep, rumbly voice stood in stark contrast to the collective baritone blast of the thousands of gathered BattleVectors.

"_AMEN!"_ They all called, before the first shot from the main wall blasted out, a sniper firing a round the size of his fist.

The young BattleVector curled his tail around his midsection, and with a set face, he roared out loudly, joining the battlecries of the determined warriors before he wrapped his free arm around the barrel of his weapon, steadying it. He pressed his shoulder into the machine gun's stock and ground his foot onto its mount, the metal clinking and clanking before finally he depressed the trigger. The first bullet exploded outwards with a massive gout of fire and a deafening thunderclap, screaming through the air at thousands of meters per second.

The first projectile slammed into its target, dozens of meters away. The sheer force of impact blasted the insurrectionist out of his vehicle in a flying frenzy of blood and shattered glass. The driver of the vehicle swerved to the right, trying to avoid the endless thundering of the wall of machine guns, cannons, and rifles, inadvertently slamming into the vehicle next to it with a loud metallic crunch that went unheard over the sound of gunfire and battle cries. The approaching enemy masses scattered in all directions, attempting to spread themselves out thin so as to make it more difficult for the defenders to destroy them.

"_They are trying to slide down the quarry!"_ The young BattleVector heard.

"_They shall do no such thing!"_ Came the voice of Lanceman Sal'Naa, "_extend the barriers. First layer, retreat thirteen meters and facilitate a bottleneck."_ He ordered.

"_Stacked retreat!"_ Came the voice of the first layer's Lanceman, "_Advance guard, prepare to move! Secondary line, prepare to fire!"_ As he spoke, the young BattleVector removed his foot from the pod of his machine gun, and large metallic walls began extending upwards from the sides of the downward leading slopes of the quarry. Over the gunfire could be heard the sounds of panicked shrieks, as multiple insurrectionists were caught unaware by the barriers and sent tumbling down to their dooms. "_Advanced guard, retreat!"_

With those words, the young BattleVector hefted his machine gun into the air, cradling it like a battering ram. He unfurled his tail and scooped up the large bag that contained within it his ammunition boxes; he swung the gun and the bag around to the side and turned his body with them, their momentum carrying his arms and tail out to the side, before he barreled forward through a thin path created by the other BattleVectors. He bowed down low and thundered forward, his feet pounding the stone with loud thumps, and the sounds of fresh guns and vengeful souls rapidly retreating behind him.

After he retreated eight meters, the sounds of war sounded much more distant, and the only sounds he could clearly hear were his thundering heartbeat and his rapid breaths of air. He was flanked on all sides by others who had manned that first line of Saltorians, all of them carrying various machine guns, rifles, and ammunition. Not a word was spoken between them as they descended deeper into the pale-stoned quarry, the light from the suns above slowly receding as the barriers grew taller.

The BattleVector skidded to a halt when he reached thirteen meters, marked by another series of sandbags, his boots scraped against the stone and sent small pebbles scattering in all directions. He hopped over the sandbags and made another one hundred and eighty degree turn. His deep brown eyes immediately snapped up as he roughly planted his machine gun mount back on the ground with a loud metal clack, and the scraping sound of metal on stone. Barely a second later, more green blurs came barreling around the bend, these men carrying with them more ammunition and weapons.

The young BattleVector opened up his ammunition box, mentally tallying up the kills he was aware of. He had killed at least eight men in addition to three vehicles, and had burned through half of his first ammunition box. By his math, he would last another hour like this, perhaps two if he practiced better trigger discipline. He nodded and adjusted his helmet, it scraping and pulling at his sweat-slick scales, before he bent his knees and pressed his shoulder into the machine gun.

_Twelve levels until the Second Temple. Three living walls. Nine mortar, Anti-Personnel, and Anti-Air emplacements. _The BattleVector mentally counted down, as the second line reached the rendezvous point and began stacking up behind cover. _Thirteen meters… We are on level two of twelve, the next wall is on stacked from level seven to level three, the final wall, level two to ground level. _ More BattleVectors came sprinting around the bend, the machine-gunner braced himself against his weapon, knowing that the enemy would soon follow. _We do not stop fighting until they retreat. _His neutral expression turned into a scowl of multiple sharp, carnivorous teeth. _We do not stop killing until they cannot fight. _He braced his booted feet against the ground, grinding it up as they sank a few inches back. _We will not fail. We will not falter. We will win, for the glory of the Hoomanisire. _

"Amen." Said the BattleVector, as several of the runners ducked their heads, insurrectionist fire pouring over them like a wave of angry insects.

The moment the young BattleVector got a shot, it coming in the form of a speeding vehicle, he lined up the sights on his weapon and fired. The recoil slammed repeatedly back into his shoulder, his uniform rippling with each blast, his scales lighting up a brief yellow-white with each flash. The enormous slugs flew through the air, so accurate that they blasted straight past his retreating gun-brothers so easily that it was as if they were not even there. With multiple loud thunks, the projectiles slammed into the front of the speeding vehicle, tearing massive holes in its boxy surface, before finally hitting the engine block and turning the vehicle into a massive paperweight.

The driver quickly lost control, swerving left and right before the vehicle finally went airborne. The BattleVector continued firing, some bullets hitting the bouncing, spinning vehicle, some going past it to obliterate the men not protected by their vehicles, turning them into clouds of red paste, and painting the area around them red and sticky with gore. The vehicle bounced thrice, tearing large divots out of the ground, before it slammed into the extended barrier and skidded to a halt. The heretics didn't even hesitate to use the smoldering corpse of a vehicle as cover, several opting to hide behind it, others using the divots as cover. The advance slowed down considerably as more vehicles arrived and screeched to a halt to be used as cover. The young BattleVector fired in long, sustained bursts, destroying and detonating vehicles, blasting apart the unblessed, and keeping those too cowardly to face him pinned down as they hid from his gunfire.

Blind fire from the approaching insurrectionists zipped past the BattleVector defensive line, the young machine-gunner ducked down, briefly pausing in his fire to dodge the incoming rounds. He waited a moment before he popped back up again and opened fire, his eyes immediately snapping upwards. Grappling hooks and other climbing implements were being thrown over the barrier, and the unblessed were ambling over them as fast as possible.

"_They are climbing the barriers!"_ The young BattleVector called out, and not a second later another BattleVector slid into cover next to him, waiting a moment as more bullets zoomed by, before he popped up and took aim.

The rifleman fired in short, tight bursts, snapping his aim from each target the moment they lost their grip and went tumbling down. As other machine gunners worked to suppress and destroy the encroaching horde, more riflemen worked to shoot down the climbers. The insurrectionists soon mounted a counterattack, all of them ceasing fire and waiting as the BattleVectors suppressed them. Those hiding behind vehicles ignored the scorching flames and red hot metal, those hiding in craters and divots laid low and covered their heads with their arms, and those hiding behind the stacked corpses and body parts of their dead crouched down and kept their heads low.

The Machine Gunner narrowed his eyes, before they flew open in realization, and he dropped behind cover. Barely a second later, as one, the heretics all broke cover and raised their rifles, before a storm of gunfire washed over the BattleVector defensive line. The machine-gunner heard several cries of pain, and saw one or two bodies hit the ground, as dead as their ancestors. The gunner risked a peek over his sandbags, and cursed when he saw another series of insurrectionists ambling over the barriers as quickly as possible.

The insurrectionists were met, however, by snipers resting atop the dull, silver roof of the Second Temple. There were hundreds of sharpshooters taking cover behind various outcroppings and walls on top of the unearthed structure, many of them wearing dull-colored camouflage so as to blend in with the roof's surface. The sniper rounds screamed through the air, not a single one missing its target, each one turning a heretic to paste before they could even cry out.

"_Second layer, make ready."_ Said a sniper, before he pulled the trigger on his rifle and a massive slug blasted outwards. He operated the bolt on his rifle, and slammed it back home. "_We can only keep them from moving for so long."_ He scanned the top of the barrier, found a target that lost his footing and was half on one side, half on the other. With a pull of the trigger, the sniper made certain no half of the unblessed soldier would survive the end of the day, as it turned the poor creature into a red mist. He slid the bolt and slammed it back home, snapping to his next target, before a round buried itself into the ground a few meters to his left.

The sniper's eyes widened and he inhaled deeply through his nose, instantly judging the direction of the round and gauging the distance from which it had been fired. He whipped around to the right and aimed his weapon high. There was nothing, but he narrowed his eyes and fired the weapon anyways, the massive bullet slamming into and through the raised metal barrier, with blood and gore spraying outwards, the figure that had been hanging from the wall falling to his death, his arm blown off at the shoulder. The sniper grunted, and quickly found another target, pulling the trigger with no hesitation. The round went wide, hitting the side of the insurrectionist's chest as opposed to his dead center, blasting the left side of his torso clean off, leaving ribs sticking out, the remaining bits of his spine exposed, gore dripping down to his lower half, and an explosively deflated lung trying and failing to inhale oxygen. The Saltorian fell backwards, a look of unparalleled pain on his face as he gurgled his last.

"_The second layer is ready."_

"_Allow a tactical advance."_ Came the voice of Lanceman Sal'Naa, "_they shall think they have gained ground, and rush into the second layer, foolhardy."_

"_Lanceman -"_ Suddenly came the voice of the first layer's Lanceman. "_- we will be surrounded!"_

"_The barriers and quarry walls were coated in tungsten, and are reflective." _Came Sal'Naa, as a swarm of miniature drones flew in from the south.

"_You worry about your front, sirs. We shall keep cover of your rears."_ Spoke another voice, "_our eyes are not limited to those in our head."_ A moment passed after the voice spoke, and the barrier lit up as a talon-sized beam of energy hit the wall and reflected off of it. Before any of them could even blink, the single laser beam reflected off of the barrier and onto the quarry's wall, zig-zagging higher and higher before reaching the general area of the first defensive line.

Initially reflected off into the sky, the searing-hot laserbeam was intercepted by one of the stone-sized drones, which split the single beam into multiple smaller ones and reflected each one to a different target. Such was the strength and intensity of the energy beams that they seared the scales and burned the meat of everyone they hit in an instant. The screams of men as they were burned to death filled the air, as did the ash made from their flash-fried bodies. The harsh winds, explosions, and flying projectiles quickly scattered the ash and mixed it with the air, filling it with a faint fog.

Their numbers falling nearly as quickly as the newest arrivals could replenish them, the heretics began bolstering their numbers just behind their main offensive line. They drove a neutered truck, its engine and fuel cells removed, the vehicle was fitted with dozens of shock-absorbing metal plates, and was half as wide as the two meter distance between the stone wall of the quarry and the tungsten barrier that marked the slope's edge. The massive vehicle, adorned in dark metal plates, rumbled forward, pushed by the might of two thickly muscled, dark-scaled Saltorians. The rolling fortress of a vehicle picked up speed as they kept pushing it down the descending slope, more of the insurrectionists' number hopping behind the shield and riding it down, cheers raising into the air as they passed their allies, who felt more invigorated as the shield-truck started taking fire from the machine guns and rifles of the BattleVector defenses, and kept rolling forward. The bullets slammed into the meter thick metal plates, not even slowing the vehicle down as it absorbed the shock of impact and protected the men behind it.

The sound of rock churning underneath thick rubber tires, of the bullets striking and rebounding off of metal, and of men roaring over gunfire all met the ears of the insurrectionists as the speed of the shield overtook the strength of the two pushing it. They hopped onto the truck bed, riding the shielded vehicle down the descending slope. Several heretics hung off of the side of the rolling fortress, firing wildly towards the BattleVectors, but the fools had failed to account for the unparallelled skill of the BattleVectors, and for their trouble they were blasted to pieces by the sharpshooters.

"_BRACE YOURSELVES!"_ Roared a young, light-voiced insurrectionist, as the rolling fortress rumbled towards the BattleVector defensive line, almost instantly attracting the attention of every gun that was available. Thousands of BattleVectors firing hundreds of thousands of bullets, a shower of golden sparks and red-hot shrapnel flying off from the front of the rolling fortress as they slammed into it and shattered into hundreds of pieces. The dark vehicle roared down the winding slope, parting the thin ash cloud and rampaging straight towards the sandbags. "_WE ARE COMING THROOOOOOOOUGH!" _As he bellowed, before the truck slammed into the sandbags and continued barreling through, scattering hundreds of pounds of sand and dozens of BattleVectors that leapt for cover.

The enormous vehicle shook and rumbled as its tires crunched everything underneath them, from sandbags to ammunition boxes to a few slow BattleVectors. However, to the credit of the Hoomanisire's chosen defenders, it took little less than a moment for them to adapt as the truck kept rumbling down the slope. Several BattleVectors, casting aside their rifles or their machine guns, they took up their hand cannons and leapt onto the front and sides of the out-of-control vehicle. As the vehicle coasted down the slope, and the BattleVectors climbed its surface, the other heretics surged forward, unwary of however many fell to unseen laser fire.

The BattleVectors climbing up the vehicle struggled upwards as they blasted through their defensive line and left it behind. It took them only a few moments to crest over the edges of the metal plate and leap onto the truck bed, startling some and terrifying others. The truck bed, already cramped with how many insurrectionists filled it, was filled to the brim as a dozen holy BattleVectors leapt into the fray to do battle with over a hundred heretics. Each of the BattleVectors held a gun in one hand and had the claws of their other hand extended, and the truck bed quickly became a maelstrom of chaos as the insurrectionists all tried moving as one disorganized mass, hopping, jumping, and dodging this way and that, firing their weapons with a wanton disregard for their allies. The BattleVectors used this chaos to their advantage, and soon the truck-bed lit up as they weaved into and out of melee range, slashing at the throats of the opponents closest to them and blasting apart the chests of those at any distance greater than that of their arm. As the vehicle continued rampaging down the slope, the truck-bed became awash with blood, gore, and stuffed to the brim with corpses, the original number dwindling down to the lower dozens, but they got their chance to counter when the truck came to the first bend.

Without warning or preparation, the semi-truck slammed into the wall of the quarry and bounced off, jarring everyone standing upon the bed and sending a few of the BattleVectors falling to their backs. The insurrectionists, after regaining their balance, leapt into action, bodily throwing themselves forward and towards the recovering BattleVectors. One unlucky chosen warrior was faced with eight rebels at once, four of which pinned his limbs down, and the others retrieved their weapons. They pointed their weapons at the BattleVector, who only managed to disentangle one limb before he was blasted to bits by gunfire. This death would prove to be the heretic's only victory, however, as two other BattleVectors tackled them to the ground and blew apart their chests with their handguns, and sliced apart their necks with their claws,rage consuming them at the loss of their gun-brother.

The maelstrom of blood and gore continued as the truck kept rampaging down the sloped quarry. Deafening gunshots and the gurgles of slit throats filled the air, joining the sounds of gravel and stone churning underneath the tremendous weight of the vehicle. However, the journey down to the Second Temple halted wholesale when they came within eyesight of the second defensive line. Thousands of BattleVectors, each armed with an energy lance, all aimed at the tires of the vehicle. In less than a second, the rubber tires and the steel rims melted to slag. The tremendous weight of the vehicle suddenly dipped down and dug into the stone ground. The vehicle dragged forwards for a few meters before it hit a thicker, denser patch of stone.

All of the vehicle's forward momentum was turned to upward momentum, and it flipped into the air, spilling corpses, blood, and gore, and tossing the remaining living fighters into the air. The insurrectionists panicked as their feet left the ground, but the BattleVectors merely adapted, with the ones that had been separated from their prey merely aiming their guns and firing away. The BattleVectors close enough to grapple their opponents, however, unfurled their tails and wrapped them around the waists of the unfortunate heretics. Some yanked the fighters closer and punched, kicked, kneed, and sliced at them, preferring to kill them themselves rather than let the forces of gravity do the job; others, however, whipped their opponents around through the air, forcing them to face the ground.

The BattleVectors tumbled through the air, the ground growing closer with every moment. The grapplers braced themselves against their screaming body-shields, whilst the ones with no shield merely braced for the inevitable impact. Their gun-brothers on the ground, however, would not sit idly by and allow their fellow BattleVectors to die. Several of the energy-lancemen began sprinting through the ranks, parting them like a sea, trailing underneath the airborne BattleVectors. It took a few seconds longer for them to fall to the ground due to the planet's lighter gravity in comparison to Saltor, but that merely meant the energy-lancemen had more time to lead their gun-brothers and catch them safely. The flying Saltorians landed in the arms of their gun-brothers with loud grunts and jarring impacts. They tumbled and skidded across the ground before finally coming to a halt.

Breathing heavily, his heart in his throat, one BattleVector nodded to his savior. "Thank you, brother." He said, as the two disentangled themselves. He got to his feet and reloaded his hand cannon, before clacking its barrel against the barrel of his savior's energy lance. "I fear what would have happened had I hit the ground without your…" He grinned a sharp-toothed grin. "Soft arms." He pointed at the man's eyes, "I can see it in your eyes." He said, before the two began jogging back to the second layer's front lines. "Mount Hoyorandu?"

"Ninety years of service under the softest mountain on Saltor." The man smiled, "it is a small system." He said as the two picked up speed.

The BattleVector turned his head forward, watching as the smoke, noise, and brief flashes of light from discharged firearms slowly approached them. "It is getting smaller with every passing day." He said, as one side of the quarry wall lit up a bright white, the only mark of the energy beams hitting them and rebounding towards the approaching rebels.

"_Second layer, make ready for imminent contact."_ Came the voice of Lanceman Sal'Naa. "_I am working on securing access to a Liquid Fire Satellite. I need just one hour."_ He spoke, "_to all: our winged force is returning to rearm themselves, so the enemy will be unmolested and able to mount a heavy assault. Close air is on its way."_ Coinciding with his words were the deafening sounds of mortars firing their shells, and the whistling that followed as the mortars flew high into the sky, pale white contrails marking their trail. "_Snipers, focus on the climbers and the ridges that could give them a height advantage. Mortars, use our unmanned fliers to find and target any heavy vehicles. First and Second defensive layers, take down every enemy you see, and do not let them breech any further until I give the word. Our most lethal weapon is their own hubris. Individual fighters, prepare to receive orders. _

"_We have the Hoomanisire on our side."_ Said the Lanceman, as the two BattleVectors reached the front line and slid into cover. "_Fight knowing you fight for righteousness. Amen."_

The two BattleVectors waited as the heretic insurrectionists continued approaching. The rumble of the ground being beaten by the feet of the unblessed, and thunderclaps of their weapons tearing apart the air, it all assaulted the ears of every BattleVector waiting for the battle to meet them. Just before they rounded the bend, the BattleVectors raised as one, those at the very front staying low, those behind them barely standing, with a rising tide of BattleVectors until their very rear, who all stood as tall as they could, giving every single living, breathing embodiment of battle a clear shot.

The quarry in front of them went from partially darken and shadowed to as bright as a desert in the afternoon in an instant, as the BattleVectors all pulled the triggers on their energy lances. In scant seconds the stone ground began to smolder visibly, the husk of the shield truck began to bubble and melt to slag, the end result being a ten meter long valley of heat as unforgiving and uncompromising as the twin suns. The first insurrectionists to cross the threshold of cold and hot were turned to ash just as the pain registered and they began to scream. The second group to cross over barely had time to try and slide to a halt before their skin boiled off of their bones and they tumbled forward, the rubber of their boots flash-melting and sticking to the white hot ground.

The insurrectionists wised up fast and halted and reversed their advance, unable to grab cover due to the fact that it just didn't exist within the ten meter no-man's land. Thirty feet of searing hot concrete and disintegrating lasers, no one could pass that in the handful of seconds they had before their scales burned off and their bodies turned to ash. Whenever they tried peering around the bend, a sharpshooter would burn a hole right in between the eyes of the unlucky fighter that had drawn the short straw. The unblessed knew, however, that they could not wait for their enemy's weapons to drink their energy cells, nor could they wait for the weapons to overheat, for no BattleVector was stupid enough to allow such a thing to happen to their sacred and holy weapon.

Their options limited, the heretics instead opted for a third option. The heavy weapons operators had their time to shine by shouldering their rocket launchers and aiming for the uppermost edge of the quarry. They knew that they couldn't afford to be stingy in this situation, if they used only one or two rockets, the BattleVectors could shoot them down, so they had to overwhelm any possible defense with sheer quantity. They launched their explosives, which filled the air with dark smoke and arced through it with a loud roar and a blast of fire, before slamming into the quarry's wall and detonating in enormous, fiery explosions. Debris immediately began raining down in a massive rockslide, forcing a great deal of the BattleVectors to let go of their triggers and run for cover, leaving only a few hundred able to keep up the valley of fire.

Without enough numbers to sustain it, the BattleVectors' trap was ruined, and with the rocks and debris tumbling down on their position, their defenses were weakened. The insurrectionists had a perfect chance to make it over the former valley of fire, all they had to do was cross the partially melted stone. They waited a few moments, listening to the pained cries of the BattleVectors as they were assaulted by the rockslide, and building up the courage to cross the slagged stone. One of them, a burly Saltorian with graying scales, decided the moment was opportune and, with a deep, bellowing battle cry, sprinted away. He rounded the bend and kept thundering forward, the heat of the valley of fire assaulting him with no reservations, instantly coating him in a thin film of sweat. His boots stuck to the ground as they melted, and his clothes started to smoke and smolder, but he kept beating the ground with his feet, the air leaving his lungs as loudly as he could force it to, almost as if he felt he would die if he stopped trying to outdo the volume of the battle.

The burly insurrectionist reached the edge of the valley of fire, and the difference in temperature was like night and day, going from unbearably hot to terrifyingly cold in an anticlimactic second. He grunted deeply and hopped up, before slamming his feet down onto the ground and leaping high into the air, his steaming gun barking out its searing hot ammunition, tearing apart any BattleVectors unlucky enough to be in its path of destruction. Blood and gore splattered all over the ground as he soared through the air and sprayed ammunition everywhere, and whenever his slugs hit body armor, the BattleVector he hit was instantly slammed into the ground with multiple broken ribs. The burly insurrectionist soared for a few seconds before he hit his crest and started falling, but by then, the rockslide was half over, and the more experienced BattleVectors were recovering. Before he could blink, he felt a blinding, burning pain bloom all across his body and burn through his chest. A stabbing, almost electric feeling gripped his body as his primary heart was destroyed by laserfire, and his second heart was grazed by the searing hot laserbeams.

Knowing death was imminent, the burly fighter hit the ground with a roll. He got to his feet and yanked his head backwards, avoiding a lightning-fast kick from a BattleVector. He whipped his gun up and pulled the trigger, but only the click of an empty magazine met him. The gray-scaled heretic growled, though due to his burned, damaged lungs, it came out as a hiss as well as a cough. He gripped his weapon by its stock and pushed forward, swinging it like a blunt instrument and clocking the BattleVector on the head, just hard enough to rip off scales and draw blood. Keeping his momentum going, the burly fighter dropped down low and swung out his tail, catching the BattleVector in the gut and pushing him to the ground. The BattleVector clawed his tail, scraping several inches of scales clean off and soaking his claws in the unblessed blood. Before the burly fighter could do anything else, his already penetrated chest was blown completely apart by a massive caliber bullet that had went wide and missed its original target. He lurched forward and fell to the ground, revealing, mere feet away, two Saltorians locked in a physical struggle, both hands clenched together as they tried to overcome the other through sheer strength.

The two Saltorians, one adorned in patchwork tungsten plates and the other in thick kevlar armor, locked eyes with each other as they pushed against their opponent, trying with all of their might to overpower the man trying to kill them. The heretics, however, lacked the training and the brotherhood afforded to the BattleVectors, and as such none of his allies came to his aid when they noticed his struggle, but on the other side, the moment any BattleVector saw their gun-brother struggling for his life, they all placed theirs on the line to weave through the fight to help him. In a blink-and-you-miss-it moment, three BattleVectors leapt into battle alongside the first, one slamming his fist into the side of the insurrectionist's face, the other came in low, whirling around and slamming him in the midsection with his tail, while the final locked both of his arms around the unblessed heretic's stomach and hauled him into the air, suplexing him with a loud battle cry and the sound of a skull splitting on concrete.

The BattleVector, stunned from the impact with the ground, shook his head and slowly let out the air from his lungs, regaining his composure. When he looked up, he saw a hand extended, and he took it without delay, hauling himself to his feet, before quickly having to duck his head down to avoid incoming fire.

"_Seal the breach! Stop their advance!"_ The second layer's Lanceman called out, his voice barely heard over the sounds of men shouting, guns firing, and fists colliding with skin.

The quartet of BattleVectors turned to the front of their defensive line, seeing, just over the heads of their fighting brethren, many more approaching insurrectionists. The first to run forward bent down low and snatched up a second energy lance with his free hand, and brought to bear the one hanging from his shoulders by a sling. The other three followed suit, sprinting behind him, swinging their cradled weapons and huffing and puffing as their legs flew over the ground.

They reached the line of sandbags, several of which had been toppled by the rampaging rebels. The one with two energy lances took charge, "You!" He pointed at the thinnest one, "take the ones on the left. You!" He pointed at the one whose energy lance had a thinner, more focused barrel. "Take the ones on the right. And you!" He pointed at the man in the center, "take down everyone in the center! I shall worry about our rears." He said, turning his back to the sandbags and pressing against it. He shoved one energy lance in the crook of his knee, twisting its stock clockwise with a loud 'click', and pulling it out, detaching the barrel and turning the lance into an energy pistol. The second one, his own lance, he stuck underneath his armpit, before twisting counterclockwise. He spun it around to a proper grip, just as the barrel went from a cool metal to a bright, glowing white. The lance's bore sealed itself from the outside and pressed itself flat, and in the space of two seconds, his lance went from a ranged weapon to a close-quarters sword. He gripped the former stock tightly, and growled before he stood up, the barrel of his scavenged weapon clattering to the ground; he narrowed his eyes as several insurrectionists noticed what his gun-brothers were preparing to do and approached, weapons drawn.

Before any of them could pull the triggers of their weapons, the BattleVector surged forth, his pistol raised and glowing, its beam drawing a searing hot line across all three heretics, stunning them long enough for him to close the distance and swing his sword. The white-hot blade carved a smoldering wound across the chests of the three, using his momentum to continue spinning, his tail unfurling from around his chest and smacking into their heads, sending them stumbling back. When he finished his spin and faced the three again, he swung his pistol around and fired into the face of the closest insurrectionist to him, burning a hole into his face and killing him before he could scream. The other two, having been given a moment to recover, shouldered their weapons and opened fire.

The BattleVector's eyes widened as far as possible as time slowed to a crawl. He saw the flash of fire explode out from the two barrels and the .50 caliber bullets blast outwards in slow motion. Acting fast and on an instinct bred by centuries of life under the light of the Hoomanisire, the BattleVector swung his burning blade upwards, the white hot blade cutting into the spinning bullet and carving it in two. The bullet split in two and flew off to the sides, grazing against him as opposed to busting him open like a balloon. On the upswing, as the other bullet hit his shoulder, he flicked his wrist and swung the blade in a wide, circular arc. He caught the throat of one of them, sending it spinning to the ground, gurgling through scorched and blackened scales, and the final heretic threw his head back, just managing to dodge the searing hot blade.

The final heretic stumbled onto the backfoot, but threw himself forward, tackling the BattleVector and pushing them several inches back, towards his allies, who were busy burning the approaching insurrectionists to ash. The BattleVector growled, slamming his head into the head of his opponent once, twice, thrice, before his powerful blows drew blood and dizzied the unblessed man, giving him just the time he needed to elbow him in the back and burn him with his gun. The heretic cried out in pain as it felt its innards get scorched black, but its cries were silenced when the BattleVector's blade pierced its back and he yanked it to the side, all but bisecting him, and dragging his organs out of his body. The heretic fell to the ground with a dull thump, and the BattleVector didn't pay him any further mind, his head snapping up and seeing several intense struggles nearby, each with the potential to spill over to his allies should he do nothing. With a deep grimace, he tore off forward, sword held low to the ground and his pistol extended.

Behind the sprinting BattleVector, the three lancemen were holding off the advance of the insurrectionist horde by themselves, as their brothers killed off whoever had breached their defensive line. The three of them fired in tight, three second bursts, focused on felling on those closest to them first, keeping the offensive line moving backwards as opposed to forwards. Bodies fell with a steady staccato of wet smacks on a sizzling, steaming ground. Their bodies slowly grew slick with sweat as the residual heat from the laser beams washed back over them with the changing winds.

"_We need more men!"_ One of the lancemen called out, "_their bodies will outlast our rifles!"_

"_Second Layer, I am repositioning the drone swarm to your position."_ Came Lanceman Sal'Naa's voice. "_Use it, and watch your tails - the enemy is trying to bypass our defenses by lining the edge of the quarry."_ One of the BattleVectors blasting away at the oncoming insurrectionists chanced a glance above him. "_They will be using vehicles."_ Barely a second after he spoke, did six large trucks speed straight over the edge of the quarry, sailing through the air with dust and pebbles trailing behind them.

"_Warn the berserkers!" _Called a BattleVector, a second before he disemboweled a heretic with his claws. He turned his gaze upwards and watched several more trucks fly over the edge, "_where are our fliers?!"_

"_The latter is moving as fast as they can. The former already know."_ Said another voice, as the trucks arced through the air and cleared the multiple barriers. One vehicle's rear tires hit the edge of a barrier and it began spinning vertically through the air, sinking fast before finally slamming into the lowermost level of the quarry, tearing apart the stone as it flipped about and ground to a halt.

The other vehicles did little better, slamming into the ground and popping all of their tires with loud explosions of air. They slid to a halt after grinding apart several meters of stone. The drivers of the vehicles quickly vacated, crouching down low and shouldering their weapons, scanning their surroundings. The base of the quarry was ten kilometers in circumference, with the Second Temple at its center, its front surrounded by BattleVectors, all with their weapons hanging from their hips, all with their arms crossed , and their faces set in a firm scowl, simply watching as the insurrectionists bypassed all of their defenses and made straight for them.

"They're standing in the open!" One called out.

"Then _kill them!"_ Another roared, opening fire.

With a blinding flash, a dome of light appeared out of nowhere, encircling the exposed portions of the Second Temple in a massive array of holy light. The bullets from the insurrectionist slammed into the dome and reflected off, flying into the distance to be lost forever. When the insurrectionists ceased fire, the dome stayed alight for a few brief moments, before vanishing again.

"What… Was - WAS THAT -" Cried one hysteric heretic, before he was cut off by another, calmer man.

"It was a trick of the BattleVectors. A secret they have kept to themselves." He said, calming his ally down. "Nothing more. Though it may explain why their snipers yet live, it does not mean they have the favor of the gods, only their gifts." He straightened his stance and squinted his eyes, watching as the sentinels standing guard slowly began stalking forward, each step marked by a swing of an arm. "And it seems that even gifts cannot be hidden behind. See how they march out to meet us." He shouted over the sounds of more trucks and vehicles sailing through the air and slamming into the ground, several exploding in mid-air due to gun or energy-fire, others hitting barriers and tumbled to an early grave.

"If we cannot shoot them, what shall we do?" A much younger unblessed fighter asked, his voice light and tearing with fear.

The leader scowled, "affix bayonets." He rumbled, digging in his pack to retrieve his rifle-mounted knife. The suns beat down on his scales as he and his allies all fixed their bayonets to the edges of their rifles, whilst those who had not the weapon merely drew their own knives or extended their claws and bared their teeth.

In the distance the BattleVector Berserkers slowly stalked towards their prey, methodically placing one foot in front of the other, their assembled forces creating a wedge shape. The man in the center placed his hand on the stock of his energy lance, his eyes narrowing in a deep scowl as he watched the unblessed make ready to resist. He unclipped the energy lance from his hip, brandishing it as he slowly brought it up and out in a wide arc, letting it come to rest next to his right hip, sticking straight out. As his gun-brothers joined him in drawing their weapons, the impatient insurrectionists began charging forward, their stances low, and their bayonets pointed forward.

"_Light your lances!"_ The BattleVector roared, his voice cutting over the distant sounds of gunfire, and even closer sounds of vehicles smashing into the ground and revealing angry insurrectionists. With his order bellowed, he gripped his energy lance with both hands, like a blunt instrument, and twisted the barrel counter-clockwise with a loud metallic click. The barrel collapsed into a flat, pointed shape, and turned from a dull gray to a bright white in seconds, as the laser lit up the blade, which soon distorted the very air as it radiated its intense heat.

The deep bellows of the heretic horde grew closer to the berserkers, as they calmly stalked forward, the sun gleaming off of the plates of armor that adorned their chests, legs, and arms. The BattleVector at the tip of the wedge growled as the battle cries assaulted his ears. He tilted his head low, his growl building in volume as his pace quickened, increasing from a threatening stalk, to a slow jog, and then again to an all out sprint, his blade humming as it cut through the air. The two opposing forces' feet created a sound similar to a constant drumbeat as they all beat the ground and sprinted across the battlefield, their collected voices creating an incomprehensible roar as they all mixed in with each other.

The BattleVector's bellow continued as he reached the assembled army of insurrectionists. He grabbed the hilt of his sword with both hands and crouched down low as they came within mere meters of each other. He increased the tone and the ferocity of his roar as he swung his superheated sword upwards in a wide vertical arc, his glowing blade meeting little resistance from the patchwork armor, which split in half and hung loosely from the insurrectionist's shoulders as his blade reached the top of its arc. In one fluid motion, he straightened his posture and swung his right foot out on front of him, before slamming it into the insurrectionist's exposed stomach with a vicious front kick.

The insurrectionist stumbled backward, and the berserker had to duck his head low to avoid a sloppy lunge from one of the enemy fighters. He stabbed the fighter through the chest with his superheated blade, and grabbed ahold of his shoulder, before violently tossing him to the side and into two other heretics. The berserker turned back to his original prey and parried a straight stab from the man's bayonet, noting with annoyance that the enemy's blade had been treated with tungsten, so as to avoid being melted by the 'lance' half of BattleVector energy-lances.

The weakened fighter was sent stumbling forward by the parry, and the moment his head passed in front of the berserker's armored chest, the latter struck the back of the former's head with a downward elbow, sending him scrambling to the ground. The berserker whipped around and stabbed downwards into the heretic's head, before he himself was sent stumbling forward as a bayonet slammed into his armor and scraped off. Acting fast, the berserker tore his blade out of the dead man's skull and spun around in a wide circle, carving apart the chest of the insurrectionist that had tried and failed to stab him. With his circular momentum, the BattleVector clenched his fist and slammed it into his opponent's face. His new opponent's head whipped to the side and then back forth, as he swung his heavy rifle around to parry a horizontal slice from the berserker. The berserker's superheated blade rebounded, and the insurrectionist made another attempt to lunge at him, but the berserker merely growled and stood his ground, allowing the blade to slam into his armor with a loud metallic scraping noise.

The blade shattered into thousands of infinitesimal, razor-sharp fragments, and the BattleVector swung his head forward, smacking it into the head of his enemy before slashing in an upward, diagonal arc with his blade held in a reverse grip. Sizzling, scorched scales and burned muscle flew out into the air, dragged out by the searing hot blade. The BattleVector spun around, his back to his stunned enemy. He gripped the white-hot blade by the handle and stabbed backwards, jamming it into his opponent's stomach and twisting it, burning a portion of the man jet black. The berserker scowled and ripped the blade out of the man, before switching his grip to a traditional one and spinning around, slicing the blade through the dark-scaled insurrectionist's throat and putting an end to his life.

His heart beating in his ears and the pale light of the distant twin suns roasting his flesh, the berserker turned his head to his left, watching as more men clashed with each other, the seemingly endless numbers of the insurrectionists violently meeting the similarly unending resolve of the BattleVectors in a deafening clash of steel and deep battle cries. Some of the insurrectionists fought with large, gaping, smoking wounds, while others collapsed when their wounds became too much for them. The sloppy way they fought, and the sluggish ways they swung and stabbed their bayonets told the man that they were clearly not as well versed in fighting a melee as they were shooting their opponents, the end result being that no struggle with a BattleVector Berserker lasted more than a few seconds. Next to the masters of the melee, these pitiful fighters were but children.

The BattleVector's ear twitched, and he hopped backwards, dodging a wild lunge from an enraged insurrectionist. He violently swung upwards and bisected the insurrectionist's arm, before lunging forwards and grabbing the flailing dismembered limb, yanking backwards and gripping the gun. He swung it around and brought it to bear upon his enemy, who barely had time to widen his eyes before his life was ended with a loud flash and a thunderclap. The body hit the stone ground with a dull thump, and the BattleVector charged further into battle, blasting at the enemies that were too far and slicing apart the enemies that came too close. When his gun clicked empty, he tossed it to the side and gripped his superheated blade with both hands, cutting and stabbing with powerful swings.

Too fast for him to dodge, he heard the sounds of approaching feet and a loud bellow, before a bayonet slipped in between the plates of his armor and buried itself deep in the side of his gut. His left side exploded into pain as he felt the cold steel sink deep into his abdomen, but his face remained resolute, and he didn't even hiss, merely clenching the muscles of his stomach as tight as he could. He slowly turned to the unlucky creature that had tried to end his life, watching as it struggled to remove the blade from his stomach. The insurrectionist froze as he realized that the berserker hadn't even flinched from the attack, and he slowly raised his head, his terrified eyes meeting the BattleVector's hardened gaze.

"Are you quite finished?" The BattleVector inquired with a stunning calm, before he stabbed sidewards, his entire blade penetrating the side of the heretic's head. The dead man's body twitched and danced as the final neurons in his brain attempted to fire, even as his brain was scorched jet black by the heat of the BattleVector's blade, steam and smoke visibly drifting out of his sizzling head. He yanked the blade back out, and after the body fell to the ground, he did the same to the bayonet in his gut, which immediately began leaking blood.

The BattleVector looked up, noticing several insurrectionists slowly surrounding him. He made eye contact with each one, making sure they knew he was eying _them_ down _specifically. _He snarled before leaping forward, blood freely pouring from his wound. He lightly jabbed at the insurrectionist in front of him, catching him in the eye and sending him stumbling back, screaming in abject pain. He jerked his head to the side and avoided a lunge from a bayonet, and quickly followed it up with by twisting around and elbowing the man in the face. He kicked the man in the stomach and sent him stumbling back before falling to his rear; two other insurrectionists made a running leap over the seated one, one with his rifle shouldered, one with a knife held firmly in his hand.

The bleeding berserker narrowed his eyes and threw up his sword in a defensive stance. The armed insurrectionist fired thrice, the first shot missing, the second hitting the armor plate on his arm and bouncing away, and the third grazing the berserker's cheek, before he and his ally hit the ground. The knife-wielding insurrectionist grunted as he made a wide horizontal slash at the berserker's belly. The blood-soaked BattleVector curved his body backwards, before he thrusted it forward again when he heard the air split behind him, narrowly dodging a wide punch from the snarling insurrectionist he'd snapped earlier. He spun around and sliced at the one-eyed insurrectionist, before he dropped to one knee and bent down low, dodging another trio of gunshots from the gunner, each of which hit his one-eyed ally, who stumbled back with each shot and groaned in pain. The berserker's tail unfurled from around his stomach and shot out, tripping the knife-wielding insurrectionist, who jabbed at it upon landing, drawing blood and causing the BattleVector to scream in pain.

The BattleVector rolled to the side, dodging two more bullets but taking another to the leg. He sliced at the feet of the gunner, causing the man to fall to the ground and cry out in pain, and leaving the air clear for the insurrectionist he'd kicked earlier to come sprinting in, claws extended. The BattleVector lurched backward, and kicked upwards with both legs, blocking and parrying each swing from the unarmed insurrectionist, before he swung both legs out to the side and spun them around in a wide circle, his free hand pressed against the ground. His inverse whirl-wind kick struck the unarmed insurrectionist three times, before he shoved against the ground with his free hand, briefly sending him airborne like a spinning top.

The berserker threw both hands over his head, flipping around and sticking his superheated blade into the center of the unarmed heretic's head, splitting it in two. His legs swung down under him and he landed on the ground with a grunt, before he jumped to the side to dodge a downward stab from the knife-wielding rebel. He whirled around and thrust his sword forward, stabbing him several times in the chest, stomach, and even in the jaw and throat. The insurrectionist fell to the ground, his skin smoldering and crackling audibly.

Breathing heavy, rasping gasps, the BattleVector took in his surroundings, his eyes falling on the last standing insurrectionist. The wide-eyed unblessed fighter shifted his horrified gaze rapidly between the bodies gazing the ground, and before he could even try and take on the berserker, a white-hot blade burst forth from his chest, before quickly being ripped back and then sent arcing across his back. The gurgling rebel fell to his knees and then to the ground, revealing a much less tired, less wounded berserker.

"I apologize, brother." The gray-scaled berserker said over the sounds of steel clashing, skin burning, and fighters roaring in battle. "I would have been here sooner, but -"

"It matters not." The berserker shook his head, and pressed his blade against his wound, cauterizing it almost instantly. "They are dead, and there still exists many scores of enemies to defeat." A bright flash of light caught his eye, he turned to it and saw the drone swarm hovering over the second layer, several lasers striking a drone in the center, which itself reflected the lasers to other drones, all of which reflected them off to others, creating a miniature sun which burned anything that crossed underneath it to cinders. "Unfortunately." He added as an afterthought.

"How they always seem to have so many willing to fight and die, I shall never know." The gray-scaled berserker lamented, with a hint of sorrow in his voice, before he nodded at his gun-brother, and then ran back into the battle.

The berserker's eyes snapped back to the fighting around him, and he quickly rejoined it, as another voice entered his ears. "_BattleVectors, prepare for aerial dominance." _Said Lanceman Sal'Naa, just before several dozen jets blitzed past the battlefield, several blowing straight past, others air-breaking and coming to a halt, hovering over it.

One plane, itself adorned with the marks of several victorious battles, and piloted by a BattleVector wearing a large fishbowl helmet, broke in mid-air, before cutting his engines and angling his plane forward. "_Pilot, shift position three degrees and fire forward." _Came Sal'Naa's voice, before the pilot did as ordered and flared the engines mere inches off of the ground. He found himself just in front of the bottleneck created by the first layer, and things weren't looking good.

Smoking, destroyed vehicles were piled high like sandbags, and crashed into each other like dead bodies. Insurrectionists were crawling all over them, like insects, using them for cover and hiding behind them like cowards. The pilot snarled, his razor-sharp teeth bared, as he depressed the main trigger on his flight-stick. One tree-trunk sized energy cannon mounted on the nose of his vessel instantly lit up a bright white, burning so hot that the oxygen immediately around the nose flashed to plasma, paving the way for the second weapon, a much smaller, less powerful version of the plane's main engine, which fired incredibly powerful blasts of compressed air at a rate of several pulses a second. The plane splattered the superheated plasma all over the battleground, covering anyone he wasn't strafing over with his energy cannon. He didn't hear the loud cries of men burning to death and being killed by their ammunition prematurely firing off, not over the sound of his engine or the multiple loud puffs of the compressed air gun. He did, however, take pride in seeing the stone ground begin to bubble and boil under the force of his plane's energy cannon.

The sound of metal slamming into and scraping off of his fighter jarred him from his brief domination over the creatures of the land. He grunted and groaned as he pulled back on the stick, angling himself back up to the sky before he blasted upwards, leaving the main defensive line in a much better position than he'd left it. Already the machine gunners and riflemen were coordinating a counterattack, taking down any stragglers and pushing the advancing horde back little by little. He banked hard to the left, not even having a second of quiet before he gained new orders. "_Pilot Fez-Twelve. Prioritize approaching enemy heavy artillery."_ A pop-up appeared on his HUD, a line arcing through the air and guiding him towards his target.

The voice then spoke louder, addressing everyone who would listen. "_BattleVectors, continue fighting hard. I have gained access to a Fluid Satellite. Its orbit is being adjusted and it will be over us in five minutes."_ He said, as more BattleVector Winged blasted through the air, burning everything in their path to ash, and Fez-Twelve followed his path. "_I will obliterate the enemy's main offensive force and scatter their remaining fighters. Now is the hour of victory - hold nothing back. The Hoomanisire will smile upon us tonight."_

The pilot grinned a vicious, toothy smile as he hit the afterburners and tore through the sky, weaving in and out of the lines of fire of various friendly and insurrectionist weapons. He deftly avoided massive mortar rounds as they arced through the air, on the way to their targets on the ground, and burned to ash any targets of opportunity he flew past. When he got within eyesight of his targets, he instantly began loading missiles. The heavy tanks were the size of small buildings, and they were all rumbling towards the battlefield, two crashing through the wraith-filled forests, one taking the main road.

"_Pilot Fez-Twelve, fire an AGM missile at tank three on my mark."_ Suddenly spoke Lanceman Sal'Naa, "_three… two… one… Mark!"_ The moment it registered, his finger pressed button and an air-to-ground missile soared out from underneath his wing, blasting through the sky and slamming into the tank to his left.

Almost too fast for him to even process, the tank he'd shot exploded, and the fireball began rapidly rotating, before turning into a spinning vortex and flying straight for the tank rolling down the main road. The vortex of fire slammed into the vehicle, a pillar of choking black smoke blasting out in all directions. The tank instantly ground to a halt, its visibility now effectively zero. As Fez-twelve soared over it, he spun his plane around so he could get a look at it even as he passed by. The side of the tank suddenly exploded in a massive fireball, and he saw that the tank taking the other forest had turned on its allies and was shooting all of its weapons wildly, allthewhile exploding from the inside.

The pilot grinned again and spun his plane back around before pulling up. He roared through the sky, turning back to the Second Temple's quarry. His energy cannon flared brightly as he burned a wide swath of fire across the ground, his HUD highlighting large concentrations of heretics and warning him to steer clear of the main defensive lines.

"_Requesting air support at Layer Two, rearguard."_ He heard. The pilot banked hard and hurtled towards the second layer, instantly seeing why they were crying for help - they had enemies on both sides, trying to tear them apart.

The pilot frowned, and targeted the largest concentration of insurrectionists, before he launched a missile towards the ground. The missile hit just before he blasted the unblessed with his energy cannon. "_Did that help?"_

"_Verily."_

Fez-Twelve grinned and continued climbing into the air, the fires of war bleeding away to a pale blue sky as he flew higher and higher. As the sky itself began to darken, he pulled back on his flight-stick, flipping the vehicle around in the thinner air. His momentum carried him several more kilometers into the sky, before gravity took ahold of him and he began to fall. He waited until the dark blue sky once again turned pale, before he hit the afterburners and began pulling the familiar G-Forces of planet Saltor, as opposed to the weakened gravity of Hoomanisire. A cloak of fire enveloped his fighter as he kept going, his eyes wide as he searched for his next target, which came in the form of a large ring of insurrectionists surrounding a trio of berserkers, in the center of the quarry.

From his very high vantage point, it seemed as if the other berserkers were trying to breach this ring, but the density of the bodies and the ferocity with which they fought hindered their progress. There seemed to be a dozen insurrectionists for every one berserker they surrounded. The pilot poured more fuel onto the fire and continued accelerating, his finger hovering above the trigger of his energy cannon. When he reached a distance three kilometers above the ground, he pulled the trigger, turning a several meter wide patch of ground jet black as he hurtled towards it, the intensity and strength of the laser beam increasing as he continued accelerating towards the ground.

Now with a wide gap burned into the insurrectionist line, the berserkers streamed inwards with no delay, tearing and slicing apart any unblessed heretics between them and their wounded allies. The pilot pulled out of his dive with a hairpin turn, his plane groaning with the stress he was putting it through, but it would pull through now, as it always had.

His computers started beeping, and he immediately executed evasive maneuvers, weaving this way and that in an effort to throw off his attackers. The computer went quiet after he leveled out and blasted through the air with a sonic-boom. It was then, that he saw beauty.

"_The fluid satellite has arrived. Acquiring target."_ Came Lanceman Sal'Naa's voice, as he positioned the weapons satellite over the insurrectionist's main force, focused and surrounding the bottleneck leading into the quarry. "_Wraiths: Evacuate."_ Barely a second after he spoke did thousands of BattleVector Wraiths appear out of nowhere, streaming out of the wooded areas and fleeing as fast as possible. "_Target acquired. Firing main cannon."_

For a brief moment, everything, from the smallest bullet spinning through the air, to even Fez-Twelve's fighter, all went still and quiet, as if the universe itself had to take a moment to prepare for the power about to be wrought. When that moment passed, a bright white beam of focused plasma soared down from the heavens and slammed into the ground, tearing it apart and carving a massive path of destruction through the insurrectionist forces. The pilot had to bank hard to avoid the fluid satellite's area of destruction. The plasma scorched the surface of the planet for ten seconds before it vanished, leaving several hundred meters, and thousands more insurrectionists dead.

There was a moment's pause, before another column of blinding white, superheated matter blasted down from space again, this time burning away the unblessed surrounding the quarry before they could flee. The beam was much smaller, more precise, this time, but still had the same effect, and in less than thirty seconds, the Lanceman uttered the magic words: "_Their advance has been broken. They are retreating."_ In tandem with the vanishment of the plasma beam. "_We have done it."_

* * *

><p>Four days passed after the battle of the Second Temple of the Hoomanisire. When all was said and done, twelve thousand heretics had been killed, with a further two thousand captured and sentenced to death, compared to the three thousand dead BattleVectors. The Praetorian of the BattleVectors, Jun Mun'Sid, presided over the funeral procession of the honored dead, solemnly maintaining his respectful silence as he watched each casket get loaded individually onto a ramp, and pushed down into a massive bonfire. The crackling, snapping sounds and the bright golden light of the fire could be seen for dozens of kilometers, but the only living creatures that could see it were the ones mourning beside it.<p>

_Thunk._ A casket was carried to the top of the ramp and loaded onto it.

_Skrrrrt._ It was pushed down the metal half-tube and left to the devices of gravity.

_Crash!_ It fell into the massive tower of wood and fire, shattering into hundreds of small pieces and sending the body straight into the fire, to roast until it turned to ash, and was spread by the winds of the planet upon which it ceased to function.

The sun had long since set, and the casket carriers had rotated twice, the mass funeral had taken so long. But last rights were _never_ something to be forgone or expedited, and they would stand for a year if it meant each soul would see its final rest.

_Three thousand. Six hundred. Ten._ Thought the Praetorian, who showed not a hint of exhaustion on his face. _Three thousand. Six hundred. Eleven._ He continued, as another casket was sent sliding down the ramp. A few minutes passed in relative silence, only the roar of the fire providing a blanket background noise to the funeral. "_Three thousand."_ He called out, his voice amplified by a microphone affixed to his throat; the casket carriers placed the final casket upon the ramp. "_Six hundred."_ They pushed it, their muscles bulging and shaking from the strain. "_Twelve."_ The casket slid down the ramp and crashed into the fire, the Praetorian, a black funeral coat resting over his combat fatigues, strode to the side of the ramp, and stood upon a platform, above all of the assembled veterans of the Battle for the Second Temple.

"_The peace of planet Hoomanisire was broken, four days ago. Broken by the discovery of a _second _temple of the Hoomanisire. Broken by the unblessed, heretic, insurrectionists who sought to steal the temple for themselves and use its gifts and knowledge to send us into a second age of irony. Three thousand, six hundred, and twelve BattleVectors fought and died in defense of this temple. In defense of peace. In defense of our god and everything he taught us to hold dear. I ask you all consider our greatest and most continuous irony: That in fighting this ceaseless war for peace, we do exactly what he taught us not to. That in fighting to maintain this peace, we forever earn some level of his disappointment… But know too that the Hoomanisire is nothing if not wise._

"_He sees our effort, and wishes for us to prove it. He sees that we wish for nothing more than to finally attain this peace for ourselves. He sees that we wrestle with our violent nature every day of our lives, and wonders if this isn't merely a temporary, finite answer. He wonders how we would respond… To our next, great, test." _His words seemed to echo all across the land, as their weight settled into the chests of everyone present. "_As the Lancemen among you know, so too shall I explain to you all the secrets the temple has given us: We are not alone in this universe, as people, and as war-fighters. _

"_When we first began excavating the temple, we came into contact with brothers, too created by the Hoomanisire, too abandoned by him. But they, unlike we, can travel the stars as He Above All did… And they, unlike we, have not even tried to abandon their violent past. These people, these Batarians, they have come to us to request our aid in an interstellar war of extinction. They ask us to fight alongside them. They ask us to _choose _to fight._

"_Now I ask you… Would you… Would your mates… Would the three thousand, six hundred and twelve BattleVectors who died four days ago… Would _any _of them _choose _to fight?"_ He demanded, his deep voice echoing for kilometers, deeply penetrating the ears and shaking the chests of the thousands of assembled warriors. "_Would our god… WANT us to?!"_

As one, every single assembled man screamed out, "_NO!"_

"_Would any of them _want _a second age of irony?!"_

"_NO!"_

"_Would any of them WANT to invite, and incite, further violence and warfare? To further earn the ire of He Above All?"_

"_NO!" _Thundered the thousands of BattleVectors.

"_Is that - is further war - what these men died for? Is that what they want to tell their god they died for? For us to take their sacrifice, and dishonor it by _choosing _to fight another war? To volunteer our warriors?!"_

"_NO!" _This final roar was much longer, much more passionate than the previous ones.

"_That, my brothers, is what we must tell them. We fought four days ago to protect our way of life. To protect our peace. To protect our god and earn his gifts. To further our society, and bring closer the idea of everlasting peace."_ The heavily scarred Praetorian spoke. "_The men you fought, the men you killed, they would have gladly accepted such a war, knowing no facts than that it was merely war! Than that they could spill more blood! DO WE WANT THAT?!"_

"_NO!"_

"_Then join me, brothers. Celebrate your victory, mourn your death. In two days, I shall prove to your god and mine that we are worthy of his love. That we know right and wrong. That we are NO LONGER the violent invalids of the age of darkness! That we are NO… LONGER… UNWORTHY!" _He roared out, to the loud, affirmative cries of his brothers in arms. _"AMEN!"_

* * *

><p><em>AN:_

_So... Where the fuck have **I** been?_

_Well, if you've been following my Twitter, you've been much more up to date with the day-to-day trials and tribulations, and know the general story._

_So, I've got two explanations. The first tells why this chapter was so delayed, and the second says why it didn't come out sooner. _

_The first one is the simplest to explain: As I said in the last A/N, I took a regularly scheduled hiatus. During those days before Christmas, I got bored and decided I wanted to write a fight scene. So, after dusting off a few **very** old characters [like, they were from before I even wrote, old.], and giving them a re-interpretation/paintjob more befitting of my current skill, I just had fun with it. _

_Slowly, I found more and more of my time absorbed by this fight, which I've aptly titled: "Round One"._

_I just kept writing, kept adding, kept changing, the fight kept getting bigger and bigger, and I just kept on having more and more fun with it, to the point that, eventually, I put **everything** on hold to write it, this chapter included. _

_Now, to make things clear, it holds LITERALLY no connections to any of the projects I'm currently working on. It's not connected to the WarVerse, The Hopeless War, HtC, or even my OC story, Terra's Sol. It is its own beast._

_The best way to succinctly describe Round One is to say it's what would happen if Will Smith's Hancock fought Metal Gear's Gray Fox. In other words, i__f you liked the SIGMA fights earlier in the story, Round One takes those fights and turns them to eleven. __I think, when you read this fight,__ you'll understand why I put everything on hold to write it. If you'll allow a little self-indulgence, it's freakin' awesome. _

_I'll be releasing it [as of the time I published this chapter] tomorrow, 2/26/16, to DeviantArt and my FictionPress account, both of which can be found by visiting my FFN profile, and likely a few other websites. _

_So, as has been floating around my Twitter for the last month... **Round One: 2/26/16.**_

_**(Edit):** Matter of fact, now that the 26th has passed, it can be found right here: www{dot}fictionpress{dot}com_/s/3278941/1/Round-One

_But, that doesn't explain why this chapter didn't come out sooner, as I'd finished Round One in early February. _

_Well, in a word? Work. _

_The long and short of it is, beyond my boss, I'm the only one there who takes the job seriously. The fact that it's a fast food gig aside, it's my **job,** and I give it the respect and dedication it deserves. My father always told me to give everything my absolute one hundred percent, no matter what it is, going so far as to say that if I wanted to shovel shit for the rest of my life, I better damn-well be the best shit shoveller I can possibly be. _

_So, naturally, this applies to any job I have too. _

_But, you see, very few other people I work with share this viewpoint. Even my manager, riding on her high horse, only ever takes it seriously a quarter of the time (read: whenever the boss is around, and she's not wrapped around one of the other employees.). In the last week alone, everyone save myself and my boss has either called out, come in late, or simply not shown up - with more than half of them doing so **twice,** and one or two showing up late literally every day. _

_If you're connecting the dots, you've likely hit the nail on the head: Whenever folks call out, I, the hard worker, get called in. Once or twice I worked fifty hour weeks [a full-time week is 40 hours], with the extra hours rolling over to the next week, so I'd work 30 instead of 40, but still get paid for the latter. The running joke is that my roll-over hours will eventually stack up so high that I'll hit 40 hours before the next week even starts, meaning I'd essentially be paid to **not** show up to work. _

_But, I digress, my original plan had been to have this chapter up Sunday, 2/21/15. _

_Needless to say, that didn't happen. Long days at work, unexpected call-outs, dealing with the fallout, my obligations towards work have been playing hell with my obligations to over one thousand people... And that's just if you count the folks who've followed this story alone, with their FFN profiles. _

_To be frank, that pisses me off. No one - and I mean **no one - **ever gets angrier than me, when I miss a release date. I feel like I've personally let each and every single one of you down, like I made a promise I could have kept up and just plain didn't. I don't like saying 'Oh, I'll do X, Y, or Z!', and then it doesn't get done. It devalues my word, and further than that, I always feel like I've disappointed you all when things like this happen, and that hits harder than any of you can imagine. _

_So, needless to say, I'm working on finding a new job. Problem is, I've heard whisperings that the Boss got a better offer, and is getting ready to leave the store. I've also heard, from the same source, that if I stick it out, I'd more or less be guaranteed a job with him in this new place. The oooonly problem is that this came from a source that, while reliable in her own way, isn't entirely trustworthy. The only explanation I'll give is that she's pregnant, and there are multiple likely candidates for the father (none of them are me, don't worry)... The least likely actually being her husband. So you can understand why I have a hard time trusting her._

_This all means that I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place: Do I stick things out at a job I'm rapidly learning to hate, that interferes with my other obligations to thousands of people, on the off chance I'll be taken along to another, potentially better paying one? Or do I start hunting around for a better offer?_

_But, I don't want to bore you all with the **whole** story [which would likely reach a regular chapter's length if I just sat down and ranted about]. The short version is that everyone else at work doesn't take their job seriously, and nine times out of ten will say, 'Oh, [Burg] will cover for me, so it's okay.'. And me being the kind of guy I am, I don't want to say 'no' unless I absolutely have to. _

_This week, to write this chapter, I've said a loooooot of 'no's. A looooot of silent 'F. You's to the other employees. I had a chapter to write and a few thousand disappointed people to entertain, and come hell or high water, I was going to do it. _

_Hell, I've been functioning the last few days on two to three hours of sleep, per day. Absolutely refusing to take any mid-day naps or go to bed early, just to get this chapter out **that** much sooner. That is how dedicated I am to writing, and that is how dedicated I am to entertaining all of you. I **will** do it, it is just a matter of time._

.

_Okay, biiiiiiiiig breath._

_._

_So, now I bet you're wondering, what's next?_

_Well, the next chapter is what's next. _

_Like I said in the last A/N, I've got extensions to perform. I won't give a solid release date, but it will come out sometime this coming March, so watch your Sundays. Hopefully, following the next chapter, I'll fall back into the old schedule... As long as work doesn't screw me over again._

_._

_Now, as to **this** chapter... Aside from it being a chance for me to show off some Saltorian Badassery, it was also a massive experiment for me. _

_In the film industry, they've got what TV Tropes calls 'The Oner.' A continuous, unbroken, singular shot. No edits, no cuts, no transitions, everything filmed with just one take. _

_This chapter was both meant to return to the 'multi-POV' style that everyone seemed to like in TFW, and also experiment with a literary equivalent of the Oner. I ran the risk of having it all seem like some overly cramped, discombobulated, uncoordinated mess, but I think I managed to pull it off. On the [likely] chance that I didn't, however, I do apologize, but sometimes you've just gotta stumble and fall, to get back up._

_And the title was a last minute change, I'd accidentally used 'Intermission' twice without realizing it, so I looked up a synonym and switched it out, last-minute._

_'Till next time!_

_-PFB_


	43. Chapter 39

_Chapter 39_

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><p><em>"In reality, when you have once devoted your life to your enterprises, you are no longer the equal of other men, or, rather, other men are no longer your equals, and whosoever has taken this resolution, feels his strength and resources doubled." <em>

**_— Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo_**

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><p><em><strong>August 2220<strong>_

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><p><em>Day One<em>

* * *

><p>Severe whiplash, multiple broken bones, acute blood-loss, and three quarters of his QIS 612 colonies had been bled out of him, meaning that his immune system was comparable to that of a human infant's. Had he been human, just two hundred years ago, he would have either died or been crippled for the rest of his life. Had it been even thirty years ago, on the Migrant Fleet, Jorell'Sahn vas Balboa II would have been declared completely unsaveable and euthanized not only for his own good, but for the good of the fleet. In August of 2220, in the common era, however, the Quarian was merely laid up in a hospital bed, sealed inside a lowly humming, sterilized, self-contained environment, hooked up to numerous medical machines and wrapped up like a human mummy, as the machines did their work on the problem areas.<p>

The Quarian lolled his head down, staring at the casts covering his arms, his chest, and one of his legs. Underneath these casts were machines, the likes of which he simply didn't even know how to describe. All he knew was that these machines were not only keeping him alive, but working to reverse the damage done to him. Instead of being hospitalized for months and awaiting dozens of surgeries, all that had to have been done to him was to remove any shrapnel from his body, surgically remove any infected tissue, and set his bones, the machines did the rest of the work, the doctors were there to make sure nothing went wrong, and even then, there was an AI that could watch him when they weren't there.

Staring at the machines, Jorell silently wished that he'd learned more to medical practices than basic first aid. He'd heard talk about the machines being able to accelerate the body's natural cellular division, and mentionings of nano-surgery, but it was all gibberish to him. In Khelish, he was being healed, and should be back in fighting shape in as little as four days, with a month of shore-leave guaranteed, save for an outbreak of another war, though that was as likely as it wasn't.

The Quarian sighed, it was at least one more day of bed rest until he could get up and walk on his own again. He looked up to the holographic television, hovering just a few feet outside of his SCE, its faint, lowered audio broadcasting into his sterile environment. He had control over it, he could change it to whatever he wanted, but he was on and off sleeping, meaning he couldn't get too into anything he was watching, because he'd fall asleep and there went his movie. Right now it seemed to be playing something from a genre unique to humans, they called it 'Superheroes'. Jorell had the luxury of seeing it from both sides: an alien perspective, having been raised by a mother who hadn't experienced any of these things, and a human one, having been born and raised in human society, in which everything felt intrinsic to him.

As he watched one hero in a form-fitting suit and a red cape do battle with some creature that seemed to be made of stone, he recalled that humans, due to a complete lack of any element zero on Earth, were never experienced to biotics until well after they had made First Contact. This meant that humans, in a move completely unique to them, envisioned in their realms of fiction beings able to operate outside the laws of scientific understanding, and called people with these abilities 'superhumans'. Anything from the understandable ability to fly unassisted, to the downright bizarre concept of being able to cast heat from their eyes, or other various body parts, really. From what his mother had told him, the first time she had heard of 'Superman', she had been stupefied. _One being_, capable of levelling cities and defacing planets, by himself? With no weapons? It had been nearly impossible for her to imagine something so powerful, so alien, especially when the most 'supernatural' thing she could compare it to were biotics, and then, they didn't work by disobeying the most fundamental laws of physics, much the opposite, they worked by _strictly obeying_ those laws. Biotics manipulated mass, plain and simple, but human superheroes were merely stated to be able to do what they could do, the how and why were never explained, merely speculated and expanded upon as their sciences advanced.

Jorell could remember once, being mystified by superheroes, back when he was younger. He also, very, very vividly, remembered thinking that the stories in which the very mortal, very human heroes defeated the veritable gods were completely ridiculous. After all, a human in a cape and a cowl, being able to take on and defeat an invulnerable being that could break apart a planet with his fists? He had thought the idea preposterous, and a part of him still _did_, but after seeing those two SIGMAs fight, he wondered if those stories weren't as far-fetched as he had once thought. Those were two mortals, two regular human beings, brought beyond the bleeding edge through sheer creativity and ingenuity, and had, if only for a few minutes, made the universe obey _them,_ and not the other way around.

Faintly, he remembered hearing of a story that mixed the modern understanding of the universe, namely element zero, and applied it to the heroic stories that the humans loved to tell. The result had been a fight, between two heroes that were older than the human space program. One of them was a physical god, largely unable to be killed save by a few specific weaknesses, the other was a mortal man, with no special characteristics save an insatiable lust for justice. From what Jorell had been told by some of his more knowledgeable friends in highschool, these two heroes fought semi-frequently in the past, and there was a very thin dividing line between the fans of the two heroes over who would actually win.

The biggest problem, however, was that in previous fights, the mortal needed time - if even just a few moments - to prepare, to don a suit of power armor to bring himself to the god's level, and that always meant he had to rely on the then-current understanding of science and technology. With the advent of element zero, however, suddenly his ability to stack up against _gods_ was much greater, for all he had to do was create a way for his suit to utilize element zero, similar to how a starship did so. Biotic power armor was his solution - boiling down to the most basic equation for force, mass multiplied by acceleration. The human himself wasn't biotic, but he had a suit of armor that could replicate its effects, and with enough sheer power, he could theoretically blow apart mountains with his mass-affected armored fists.

The result, Jorell saw as he dully watched the film in front of him play out, was a human that could fight gods, and potentially even win. He had once thought that the concept of gods fighting in a world of mortals, and even such flippant disregard for the natural order of things, was simply impossible - a work of human fiction. On the holo-screen, the power-armored human pulsed with dark violet fire and threw his fist upward, as the light bent around it, and pounded the stone-skinned creature in the face with a thunderous uppercut. The creature flew upwards into the air, only to be caught by the red-caped individual who clenched both fists together and smashed them into the creature's back, sending it careening through the air.

_Yet…_ Thought Jorell, who had been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he hadn't even truly been paying attention to the movie. _I saw it with my own eyes. _The days on Manheim seemed so distant, and yet had barely been in motion more than thirty hours ago. His mind drifted back to the things he had seen, the ancient monsters in a pristine alien bunker, the men and women dying around him, the feel of his gun jumping in his arms, the terror he felt in his heart. The Quarian sighed, pressing his hand into his head, _I… Wonder what they'll do with those alien guns._ He thought, trying to push the more gory thoughts from his head. _They… Well, 'seemed' is the first word to come to mind, but they damn well only reacted to human touch. Bots, Quarians, nothing else tripped them up, and yet if a human even looked at one, they opened up and got killing. Wonder what that means… Could've just been a cosmic coincidence, the planet was pretty similar to Earth, maybe _something _evolved sentience, and was similar to the Humans. Their general shape does seem to be a mainstay - you've got them, us Quarians, the Asari. Granted, the Asari came first, so I guess _they're _the mainstay… Agh._ He sighed again and blinked hard, focusing on the movie for a few minutes to try and drown out his thoughts. The sounds of men grunting, bones breaking, stone shattering, and things exploding flooded his mind, and he briefly wondered how intelligent of an idea it was to show an _action_ movie to a bunch of combat veterans.

_I wonder if there's something to that, though. Really, aside from the Hanar, the Elcoor, and the Volus, all known species have the same general shape… Ah, I'm thinking too much into it. Bipedal, upright, all of that's conducive towards survival and the development of heavier brains. It's a little weird that humans found billion year old guns that only work for them, but there's a reason in there. Hell, could've just been an amino acids thing - levo is fine, but dextro? Not so much. _He watched the power-armored human clench his fist, his synthetic biotic energy channeling around him in a deep blue firestorm, next to him, the blue-caped man held up his fist, which began shaking and vibrating with ever increasing intensity, to the point where it got so fast it looked like it was barely moving at all. _Yeah… That's probably it. Yeah._ He nodded to himself, _that's -_

"Knock knock." He heard, accompanying the rapping of knuckles on his SCE.

Jorell started, and his head whipped up and to the right, his entire body briefly flaring into pain as it reminded him that sudden movements while he was still recovering was a very bad idea. He saw, outside of the transparent bubble, Paul Dosdon. The man had an exoskeleton wrapped around his waist and supporting his legs, both of which were wrapped up tight in thick casts. The Sniper raised an eyebrow, waiting for the Quarian to respond to him.

Jorell, his heart thumping in his chest, wiped away the holographic television and unfiltered the audio from the outside, so he could hear his new guest. "Dosdon, I wasn't expecting to see you." He said, his light voice broadcast from the speakers outside of his SCE.

"Wasn't really planning on it." Dosdon responded dully, "but I got news: being retired."

"What?" Jorell blinked, sitting upwards and tilting his head. "They're benching a SIGMA? Can they do that?"

"Washout, SIGMA." Dosdon corrected, his gravelly voice lowering dangerously, as if he weren't happy about it either. "And they can when said SIGMA has ARS, and can't get proper modern medical treatment. My injuries, therefor, are largely limited to the best they can do without surgery that'd trip my ARS - anything from before the twenty third century, basically. I am now, officially, crippled, and I can no longer serve in combat." He indicated his legs.

Jorell blinked, "you're still walking." He said.

"Only because of this exo unit. Same kind they use for combat ops on high-gravity worlds, just adapted for... _Civilian_ use." Dosdon countered, the pause before the usage of the word 'civilian' clearly indicating his distaste for the word, and how it labeled him. "But that's neither here nor there. Get up, I've got a present for you." The shaved former sniper ordered, waving at Jorell as he turned to walk out of the room. The sniper made it three steps before he realized Jorell hadn't budged an inch, he turned back around and saw the engineer, still seated upon his bed. "Oh."

"Yeah." Jorell indicated his multitude of bandages and casts, "I'm not moving anywhere."

"And you think you're Force Recon." Dosdon shook his head, his bright eyes lowering as he thought to himself for a moment. "What do you need, a suit? An exo unit?"

"The medics will kick my ass if they find me out of bunk. I'll be AWOL."

"I haven't been retired yet, and washed out or not, I got an ID tag when I went to be augged, so I've still got a little SIGMAuthority left in me. I'll say it was for your health." Dosdon said, "I'll be back in a minute." He turned back to the door and continued walking, the servos on his legs silently moving him across the floor with no trouble.

_What the fuck is SIGMAuthority?_ Jorell asked, as he watched the sniper exit the brightly lit, sterile white room. _Why is he trying to bust me out of here?_ He wondered, leaning back into his pile of pillows. He and Dosdon hadn't had much interaction beyond what had been necessitated on Manheim, and they hadn't seen eachother once since they had been brought back to Arcturus for medical treatment. Jorell had just assumed he'd likely go a very long time without even hearing about the washed-out SIGMA, let alone actually seeing and speaking to him. Unless he was mistaken, beyond a few good moments on the battlefield, he hadn't done anything to really 'bond', so the fact that Dosdon was actively trying to break him out of the hospital - which he wasn't entirely certain was a good idea in the first place - just felt like it came from left field.

_It can't have anything to do with the SIGMA fight, can it? What did I do beyond chuck a few grenades and get my ass kicked?_ Jorell wondered, leaning back into his pollows and staring blankly at the ceiling.

A few minutes passed by in silence, before he heard footsteps entering the room again, and Dosdon came clanking into the room, a collapsed exo-unit slung over his shoulder, and an enviro-suit clutched in his free hand. The suit wasn't Jorell's preferred forest green, but it also wasn't the sterile white he would have come to expect from a hospital. Its dark blue synthetic skin stretched and groaned under the strength of the human sniper's grip. Dosdon's feet hit the ground with dull metallic thuds, and he came to a halt in front of Jorel's SCE. He opened up the pod's airlock and shoved the suit in.

"Put it on, I'll help you into the walkers." Said Dosdon, as the airlock cycled and decontaminated the suit.

"And… Why, am I doing this?" Jorell asked, as he reached forward and pulled the suit through the airlock, deftly running his hands over the seals and disassembling it from a Quarian shape into a mass of disconnected parts.

"I told you: I'm being benched. I've got a couple things I want to give out before I go, and you're on the giving end." Dosdon said, as he swung the second pair of mechanical legs off of his shoulders and pulled them apart, assembling the unit as Jorell slipped his legs into the suit.

"And… What would you possibly have to give to me? We've known each other… What, a week? Less?"

"You made the connection in the Painter vault that their tech reacted to humans, and humans alone. You broke through the firewalls on our drones - some of the most advanced firewalls in the galaxy. You were instrumental in orchestrating the death of two SIGMAs. I have reasons." He said, "but I had a friend stow those reasons away in the Arcturus Human/Quarian History Museum, so if you want your gift, we've got to go there."

"Well, I'm always up for getting cool new things from humans…" Jorell trailed off as he removed some medical equipment from his arms and slipped the torso of the suit on over his head. "But not knowing what, and not understanding why, especially after seeing the stuff we saw on Manheim…" He shrugged his shoulders, and slipped his arms into the arms of his suit, quickly latching the various pieces together and sealing them. "You know?"

Dosdon nodded briefly, "I do, actually. Thirty five years ago, at the conclusion of my SIGMA Seven, I was told that we had definitive proof that there were living species beyond my own, and I found myself unable to trust my own government as I coped with the information. Eventually I saw the wisdom in their decision, and it taught me -"

"Wait, how old are you?" Jorell asked, jaw slack and one eyebrow raised, as he affixed the seals on his neck and assembled the helmet around his head.

"Sixty seven."

"And you're still serving combat duty?" Jorell blinked, his helmet clicking onto his face, and cool air flowing through the tubes above his neck.

"Humans aren't like Quarians, as we figured out how to fight disease, so too did we figure out how to live longer and healthier. As time goes on, we age slower. The age limit for active combat is seventy five, though I do not know if you've been following it, but they've been debating raising that age to eighty. Regardless, I saw the wisdom in the decision, and it taught me that information, or, more specifically, the lack thereof, can be just as deadly as a weapon in a soldier's hands." He crouched down low, the servos and motors in his suit groaning as it supported his whole weight, felt around for a button on the base of the Quarian's exo unit, hitting it and powering up the mechanical legs as Jorell finished assembling his suit, which bulged out visibly around the various casts that covered his body.

"So… You're giving me information?" The engineer asked, sliding his feet over the side of his bed and entering the combination to vent the SCE and allow him exit.

"Yes and no. I'm giving you something no one will ever expect you to have, but it'll be up to you to make it worth something." He picked up the exo unit by the pelvis and carried it over to Jorell, who had one hand braced against the rigid surface of the SCE, his legs wobbling and his chest clenched tight as he bit back the waves of pain flowing over his bruised and partially broken body.

"Hm." Jorell grunted, taking Dosdon's hand and ambling into the exo unit. He fit his waist into the suit and slipped his stiff legs into the braces and locks, which quickly clamped down and tightened. He felt a light static shock run up the back of his spine, and a moment later, a green light flashed on the control panel next to his right hip, followed by a cool tone, signifying the suit was ready. Jorell flexed his legs, the suit whining almost inaudibly with each movement. "So, why the history museum?"

"Who in their right mind would store deadly weapons in a history museum?" The sniper asked, glancing up to Jorell as he patted down the sides of the exo unit's legs, making sure nothing was loose and the suit hadn't mistakenly given the green light. He nodded and leaned upwards, patting Jorell on the back and nodding towards the door that led out of the dimly lit paper-white room.

"You stored deadly weapons in a history museum?" Jorell couldn't help but fight back a grin, only a SIGMA could talk about such things so non-chalantly.

"I did no such thing. A friend did." The sniper said, as the two dully thudded out of the hospital room. "And besides, in case of enemy invasion, SIGMAs have a small arsenal, with enough arms to fully outfit a three-man squad, stored in at least two buildings every three square kilometers."

Jorell blinked, turning to stare at Dosdon from behind his dark blue visor. "You're joking."

"In every single one of those buildings on the station, there is one locked room that even the superintendent doesn't have a key to. I am not joking." Dosdon said, his scarred face completely straight.

"And how has no one figured this out yet?"

"We started a rumor on the internet, so no one believes it." Dosdon shrugged.

* * *

><p>The sniper and the engineer spent a quarter of an hour walking the man-made streets of Arcturus station. The air in Arcturus, much like the air in any vehicle that was meant to stay in space for more than a few hours at a time, had the distinct difference from air on a planet, in that it had a subtly synthetic, chemical smell to it. There were dozens of rows of hundreds of machines parked deep in the bowels of the station, constantly working to scrub the carbion dioxide and turn it back into breathable oxygen, constantly mixing it with various cleaning chemicals so it came out perfectly breathable, and it too was coated with a light smelling agent so it didn't smell stale or recycled. The result was what many people called 'canned air', or air that clearly had only ever been alive, or from a planet, <em>once.<em>

Jorell found himself in a small state of awe as he strode through the station. The only comparable thing to it in the known galaxy was the Citadel, and the stories had said that the Protheans had taken _centuries_ to build it, whereas the humans had built Arcturus in less than fifty years. It was a veritable city in space, with roads, lights, buildings, and the ever-present white noise to boot.

At its center were the offices of the Board of Directors and the various members of the Alliance Parliament, and spreading outward in a very strict grid-like pattern were the various, less formal buildings, shopping malls, apartment complexes, restaurants. In a space station, everything was built with space conservation being the first, second, and last consideration, comfort came only when everything else was finished and set in stone, which meant that only the obscenely rich and the members of the Board of Directors could live in lavish, spacious conditions. It took years just to make a one kilometer addition to the station's superstructure, though the humans had worked around such a limitation by adopting a very modular design. This afforded engineers space and breathing room with which to make extensions or additions to the station, all they had to do was build the parts, ship them to the Arcturus Stream, put them together, and latch them onto one of the station. The result was a station that never truly stopped growing, and a man-made city that truly represented all that was humanity: impossible only existed if one wanted it to.

The two made idle talk along the way. Jorell learned that, like him, Dosdon had joined the Alliance almost right out of highschool, and his exemplary service and top marks got him the eye of the SIGMAs. Before they had been made public knowledge, they had been created almost specifically because of the Prothean Ruins the humans had found on Mars, and they had told him that aliens existed, and had been watching the humans for a long time. His choice, he had been told, was to either join the SIGMAs and be first, best line of defense for humanity in the likely event of interstellar extraterrestrial war, or refuse, and instead go career in the military, eventually retiring like a good little civilian. Dosdon had said that the choice had made itself, and he'd suffered through seven years of SIGMA training, before they'd put him under the needle. Back then, he'd explained, ARS was still very new, and there was no way yet to detect it early, so they had only figured out he'd had it after they had already irreparably augmented his eyes. After that, he'd been given a choice - continue serving in the military, or retire with a pension plan, neither option requiring him to ever worry about paying for the ARS treatments.

"And I don't think I have to explain which option I ended up going with."

"You obviously became a civilian."

"Yup." Dosdon said, as they crossed a busy street, the crowds flowing past them, busying themselves with work, or trying to get home, or merely moving with a purpose. "There it is."

Jorell's head snapped up, they were approaching a large, angular building which stood at the end of a small intersection. Given the early time of day, the one Public Transit vehicle entering was almost completely empty, and there were fewer people rushing in or out on foot. There was a large, thick sign posted in front of the building, proudly declaring it to be the first human/quarian history museum.

"Inside…" Read Jorell, as they approached the sign from the side, and slowed down for him to read it. "You can find the histories of the founding members of the interstellar Human Systems Alliance." He nodded, an eyebrow raising from behind his dark blue mask. "I like how we're still the _Human_ Alliance, even after first contact." He mentioned, casting a glance towards Dosdon. "We going to find one of those 'locked rooms' in here?"

"Indeed, on both accounts." Said the sniper, his face set in stone as he cast a brief look around at their surroundings. "As to the first, that's got more to do with Earth and the United Nations than it does with semantics."

"Oh?"

"Yes." The two began walking again, strolling across a small parking lot, filled with patches of imported dirt and grass. "Earth and the UN created the Alliance. It was always meant to be a _human_ government. They did try to get the name changed, but there were too many nay-sayers, and even back then, Earth pulled too big and too many a strings to be ignored like it is these days. It'd probably take a third species entering our little coalition to get a name-change pushed through, but it's unlikely." He explained, as they drew closer to the looming building, its massive circular pillars casting an intimidating shadow on the ground.

"Why's that?"

"New standard: If possible, do. _Not._ Initiate first contact." He explained, waving a hand in front of the handicapped holo-plate and waiting as the wooden doors swung open. "We learned our lesson with you and the Turians."

"Hm." Now what did Dosdon expect him to say to _that?_ Sorry?

"Regardless. The thing may be here, but I can't bring you into the room. So go ahead and wander, it'll take me… Fifteen minutes, to get in, find it, and get out." Said Dosdon, as he turned his head to the Quarian. "Alright?"

Jorell bit back a smart remark, "yeah. Alright." He nodded, and the two parted ways.

Jorell soon found himself aimlessly wandering the halls of the museum. The place was stark empty, both due to the early time of day and the volatile nature of the news being broadcast these days, most people were at home or at public places where they could watch the news; what with the Rebellion on its way to dissolution and with the 'Terran Ghost' confirmed on Manheim and unable to escape, people were all but waiting for the war to be over and for peace to reign in the Alliance for the first time in twenty years.

Jorell blinked the sleep out of his eyes and, with a yawn, rubbed his bandaged neck, marveling at the fact that twenty years of war would have been multiple _eternities_ during the days of the Migrant Fleet. The one and only actual armed conflict, according to his mother, that had ever occurred during those days was a two day military engagement with a mercenary force that had shown up in a solar system the flotilla was occupying. Taking offense that the Quarians had gotten there first, the Mercenaries started shooting, and sent soldiers down to the planet to push them off. The flotilla, in response, pointed each and every one of its fifty thousand ships' guns at the comparatively small mercenary squadron, blasted them into oblivion, and then harassed their forces on the planet until they finally surrendered. After then, no one ever attacked the fleet directly, though large and dangerous battle fleets tended to 'coincidentally' arrive a few days before the Migrant Fleet ever showed up at the larger colonies.

Jorell wandered through the more modern sections of the museum, he knew that history well enough. What interested him were the sections deeper in the museum, the ones that told about the earlier histories. The way the museum was laid out, each room had two halves, one half - all adorning one wall - was the human side of things, and on the other wall was the Quarian side. The designers and architects had tried their greatest to synch up Human history and Quarian history, but outside of scraps from the Migrant Fleet and paintings or images of the ships, there wasn't much physical history from the flotilla, and the artifacts from Rannoch and from before the Geth War were all priceless and were kept on the more-Quarian-populous planets Eden and Keelahnan. The only pre-flotilla artifact kept here was a sword and shield from an ancient warrior from Rannoch, some three million years ago. Quarians kept _damn_ good records of their history, but necessity from the era of the Migrant Fleet meant that they couldn't keep too many artifacts, though rumor had it that the Director for Quarian Affairs spent half of her annual budget buying artifacts from collectors in Citadel Space. It wasn't much, but it was something.

After a few minutes just gazing over things from the last twenty years - and giving a little more attention to the most shared picture from the Second Contact War, the one where a Human SIGMA, rifle leaned against his hip, held out his hand to a wounded Migrant Fleet Marine, as from one direction Humans and Quarians stormed the Turians on the other side of the painting. No one knew who it was that had gotten the original picture, but many said that it would stand the test of time as one of the most famous images ever produced by Human society. Jorell eventually reached the earlier sections of Human and Quarian history, the twenty second century mostly focused on how Humans settled Eden and figured out how and where they fit in, in the Galaxy, and all of the scientific advances they'd made during that time. The Migrant Fleet section was comparatively bland, but still packed with the names of ships bought, constructed or refurbished, the most memorable gifts from pilgrimages, the works.

Jorell ended up slowing to a halt when he read the entry on a Quarian from a century ago, who shared his name, had made the museum with his pilgrimage gift. He'd ended up spending three years separated from the fleet, but had returned with an epic story of how he ended up almost literally falling into service with a little-known mercenary group, defended a colony from a horde of angry vorcha and Batarian slavers, and had been rewarded with a decommissioned Asari colony ship - by Quarian standards, he'd struck gold. Asari colony ships were massive vessels, capable of holding a few thousand Quarians if they were lucky, and just under ten thousand if they really rationed out space. The Quarian had been guaranteed a spot as Captain on the new ship, but he'd needed a few years of training and experience before he could have taken over as Captain of the Qwib-Qwib.

Entering the era of the twenty-first century, merely two hundred years ago, brought more of the same for the Migrant Fleet. The largest section on the Quarian half was on how the food processors on the Rayya _and_ the Alarai started failing at the same time, and Quarian population stopped growing for seventy five years as they rationed _everything_ and spent almost every waking moment of free time fixing their food processors. The Humans, however, had their third - and last - world war, space tourism, the first ever Human settlement on Luna, experiments - and repeated failures - of conventional faster than light technology, advancing communications, the Humans were, as they liked to say, 'hitting their stride'. Jorell's favorite part of the twenty-first century exhibit was an entry on the 'near-death' of the motion picture industry that had lasted from the latter half of the first decade of the century, well into the late 2000's. Even Humans weren't perfect, it seemed.

Entering the nineteenth century exhibit, however, showed Jorell something out of the ordinary. A Drell was standing, innocently and silently gazing at the Human half of the room, reading exhibits on Zeppelins, and occasionally glancing back to paintings hung up on the Quarian half of the room, as if comparing the two. Jorell slowly examined the exhibits, occasionally glancing toward the Drell, trying to find the subject of comparison, but unable to draw any connection.

Fortunately for him, the deep-blue eyed Drell spoke up before he could even mention anything. "Good morning." He said, his voice deep and rumbly.

Jorell reciprocated the greeting. "Finding anything interesting?" His first instinct was to comment on how uncommon it was to find a Drell on a Human space-station, but he doubted he even had to say it - the Drell probably already knew.

The green-skinned alien nodded once. "Many times I have looked up to the stars and wondered what is happening to others beyond me." He said, his deep voice temporarily mesmerizing the Marine. "The universe is a vast place. Many things happen at the same time. While we stand here, gazing at history, brave men and women are ending a war halfway across the galaxy. While they fight that war, an engineer works on the next technological innovation. While he works on the next technological breakthrough, a husband kisses his wife, assuring her of his love. An assassin kills his mark." He slowly rocked on his feet, but clenched his mouth shut tight as his eyes glazed over.

Jorell had heard about this, Drell had perfect, eidetic memories, but had little to no control over it. Sometimes they would just drift off into memory at random. That he was able to keep his mouth shut during one of these 'episodes' spoke wonders about his self control

The Drell blinked, he was back. "I apologize." He nodded, Jorell shrugged, he continued. "My highers are here on a diplomatic mission, I was granted leave from my duties to explore as I wished. As Arcturus, being a government-created station, lacks any churches, mosques, temples or synagogues, I was unable to look at artifacts of Human religion… So I felt history of the two member-species of the Alliance would suffice." He looked to Jorell, "have you ever considered the scale of the universe? I have found that while I perform my duties, others may be performing the same ones. Or someone else might be creating life where it might be ended elsewhere… Or perhaps the man who will link ours to another galaxy has been born right now." He turned and nodded to the wall. "Consider the first ever usage of the Human war-tactic, the Blitzkrieg. When the Human, Hitler, first executed this tactic in the Europe on one end of the galaxy…" He turned to look at the Quarian half of the room. "Your people were bringing together the smartest Quarian men and women to have ever lived, to form a think-tank with but a single goal: Fuel conservation, from the largest of liveships to the smallest shuttles; and when the Humans ended their defining war by dropping their first nuclear weapons, the Quarians created the Rayya's Fusion Pulse Drives. Now the Migrant Fleet's liveships could run for close to a decade before they would need to refuel. Peace for one species, peace of mind for another." He hummed, "it is interesting to see how things play out. Everything is, quite literally, happening at once. I admire the Asari for their ability to take it all in stride, and instead of searching for the past or clawing their way towards the future, they simply live in the moment."

Jorell blinked, very glad he had his mask to hide his expression. _Well… I guess he certainly found something interesting._ Though he hadn't expected such an answer, he took it in stride, well enough. "I guess I never really thought about it like that… Hm" Everything was happening at the same time. If he thought about it, it was actually difficult to truly comprehend, given the sheer scale of the universe they lived in.

The Drell looked understanding, but that look didn't reach his dead eyes, which themselves seemed to be impossibly alert, but perpetually glazed over, as if he knew everything that was going on around him, but was separated from it all, distant, reflective even. "Not many people do. I haven't met many who have lived the life that gives such a mindset. Only four, out of many millions I have met during my service, and three of them were Drell."

Jorell perked up an eyebrow and looked sideways at the Drell, "who was the fourth?"

"A Turian, by the name of Sar-" His omni-tool went off, interrupting him. He held his left arm aloft and cupped his hand, the gelatinous wrist-mounted computer formed into existence, glowing a dull orange. He gave the message he'd received a brief look over, and nodded once before he deleted it without any other consideration. "I apologize, but I must cut our conversation short. I have been summoned to perform my duties, and I mustn't delay, as they are time-sensitive." He turned to Jorell and bowed slightly, "until we meet again." He said, "I know it will sound strange coming from a non-Alliance race, but I recognize the uniform from the hospital at which you are staying, a military one. I do thank you for your service. Despite what some may think, the Galaxy has become a quieter, safer place, with the Alliance controlling and pacifying the Traverse. Many will not admit it, but as much as the Citadel may despise the appearance of a new challenger, they need the Alliance as much as the Alliance needs them. I believe the Quarian phrase is that lonely ships make short trips." He bowed again, "farewell." And he left, leaving a thoroughly confused Quarian with a lot to think of, in his wake.

Jorell stood there for a few minutes, blankly staring at a picture of a massive zeppelin floating above a besieged Human city, thinking about what the alien had told him. Eventually, he snorted, _Everything happens at the same time._ Thought the Marine, with a deep sigh through his nose, as he continued walking through the exhibit. _Interesting way to see things, I guess. While I'm here, people are dying over there. While they're dying over there, people are being born elsewhere. While people are being born elsewhere… Well, let's not get into that._ He grinned, entering another room and finding it to be the one with the Quarian sword and shield.

Interested in his people's history, Jorell stepped forward and observed the ancient, rusted weapons, covered in light brown, encrusted dirt, and some ancient blood of some unfortunate, but now immortalized ancestor. The artifact's description was written in Khelish on one side, and English on the other. The weapon and protector themselves were much different than their Human counterparts, though no Quarian alive honestly knew that if these were the norm from their era, or if they were specially made. The sword had a straight, rectangular blade, its cutting edge had long since dulled, at the tip of the blade it flayed out into two points, making a shape that Jorell recognized as a 'T' in the Human lingua franca. Its hilt had indentations for its wielder's fingers, but no cross-guard. It was covered in beige dirt and red rust, with little grey steel clearly visible, but if Jorell squinted his eyes, he thought he could see it in a few places.

The shield was of an ovular shape, meant to cover the whole of its wielder's forearm as opposed to his body. The most common conclusion was that the shield was designed less to protect the warrior himself by shielding him from blows, and more to deflect the enemy's sword or catch its flailed, T-shaped tip, so its wielder could parry and respond in kind. It was covered in less rust and dirt than its lethal counterpart, but it had a great deal of scrapes, dents, and divots where swords had taken small bits of it away as it deflected their swings.

The description read simply.

_Ancient Quarian weaponry, dated thirty eight thousand years old. _

_._

_Migrant Fleet records show that it was a family heirloom of an ancestor, the only one she brought with her as she fled her home on Rannoch, the Quarian homeworld. Records indicate the set was traded away when its original owner died of the first great outbreak of the Migrant Fleet, and it traded hands sixty one times before finally landing in the office of a former Admiral, who gladly donated it to the Arcturus Museum, on the condition that they be not restored, cleaned, or altered in any way._

_._

_It is unknown who created the pair, who wielded them in battle, or whose blood it is adorning the blade. _

_._

_Given its age, it is believed that it was wielded during the ancient Progression War waged by the third Kreggon kingdom, the last multi-continental war fought before the advent of gunpowder and the associated technologies, making it a doubly priceless artifact of ancient Quarian history. _

Jorell nodded, and straightened his posture. _Thirty eight thousand years… Human history doesn't really stretch that far, does it?_ He thought, turning around and seeing an exhibit on the Wright Brothers and the first ever successful flight. _All things happen at the same time… I wonder what Humans were doing, thirty eight thousand years ago? They seemed to have moved as fast as everyone else does, up until the end of their nineteenth century. _

Jorell stretched his sore body and yawned deeply, not caring for politeness as he was sure he was alone. He continued walking through the brightly lit, warmly-colored museum, admiring the copies of priceless artworks and artifacts from Human and Quarian history as he went through. He silently mused to himself as he blankly gazed over the events of history long passed.

_I wonder what's happening right now… As I look over our history, shared and unshared._ He wondered, _I wonder what's going on on Elysium, back home. I bet someone, somewhere, is signing on the dotted line. I bet, somewhere in Citadel space, a Turian and a Human are getting into a fight, and a Krogan is killing, for sport or for coin, one of the two. _ The gray-skinned Quarian chuckled lightly, _Hell… I bet, right now, somewhere, there's an as-of-yet undiscovered alien race, doing whatever it is they do, on the journey to join everyone else out among the stars._

"There you are." Came the rumbly voice of the former Marine sniper. Jorell turned to face him, he was carrying a small tin box, tucked into his hand. "That was a Drell back there, right?" He peered over his shoulder, eyes narrowed.

"Yeah." Jorell turned to face Dosdon, his mechanical legs whirring and groaning with each step. "Why?"

"Had the look of a killer in his eyes. I've heard the rumors about Drell, but I've never been able to confirm them, myself. Their kind tend to prefer urban battlefields over warzones." He shrugged, "ah well. If he's the stereotype, he'll be in for a treat. Just like you." He turned back to Jorell and held out the tin box. "Open it."

Jorell did so, and his eyes immediately widened upon seeing the fist-sized silver egg seated in the center of the box. "Is that -"

"Yes. A painter pistol." He reached into the box and picked up the egg, which sprang to life a second later, proving that it was what he claimed it to be. He flipped the weapon around and held it by the round barrel, motioning for Jorell to take it.

The Quarian carefully took the gun, which immediately collapsed back into its seamless egg shape. He held it reverently, cradling it in both of his hands as if it had much more weight than it did, and would shatter if he handled it wrong. "I never thought I'd see one of these again… But, if you're a SIGMA, I guess it's not too far-fetched to think you'd smuggled one out." He said, carefully grabbing at it with his fingers and lifting it up to inspect its seamless surface. "Why give it to me, though?" He looked past the egg to the sniper.

"I'll have no use for it." The sniper said succinctly. "In the civilian world, most problems requiring lethal force barely need anything bigger than a nine milimeter." He dug in his pocket and pulled out a Special Forces Pistol. "I've got a magnum, and several decades worth of wages stored up, that I can burn on a bigger arsenal." He put the gun back in his pocket, "so an ancient alien pistol is just overkill." He nodded at Jorell, "you, however… I can tell, the military is going to be your bread and butter. Very first deployment, you go to Manheim. You open a million year old bunker, find advanced weaponry, and kill two SIGMAs. You're an engineer, when you're presented with a problem, you fix that problem." He nodded to the gun, "it's useless to you now, but I think that, given time, you'll figure it out."

Jorell slipped the pistol back into his hands and held it tightly, before handing it back to Dosdon. "This is alien technology from… Ancestors know how long ago. Do you really think I can crack it open, change its programming, and maintain it, with modern tools? The AATF -"

"You're not the AATF. You're a Marine." He lowered the tin box and held his free hand up, refusing the gun. "And if you're hearty enough to survive two back-to-back battles with SIGMAs, and god knows everything else that happened on that planet, then you're hearty enough to survive long enough to figure out how to crack open this pistol." He took a step back, brushing his hand over his hospital fatigues, smoothing out a few wrinkles.

"Why me?" Jorell asked, lowering the egg-shaped pistol and giving the tanned sniper a confused look. "I still don't get that. I didn't do any fantastic feats of engineering while we were on Manheim… Even the things in the vault happened by accident."

Dosdon shrugged, "say you crack it open. You'll therefore have intimate knowledge of an ancient alien weapon. Power sources, how it works, what parts it uses, how we could replicate those parts, the programming… If we ever had to replicate these weapons, you and your efforts could be key." He paused, and turned around, his mechanical legs thumping with each step. "Or you don't manage anything and just wait for the AATF to do it for you. But… Sometimes the safest hands aren't our own." He said as he retreated further into the museum, "until we meet again, Jorell'Sahn." He waved without looking, and rounded a corner, the only further indication of his presence being the retreating sound of mechanical legs thumping across the floor.

* * *

><p>There were few reasons, <em>ever,<em> to run full-tilt on a space station. Sprinting increased heart-rates, which increased the need for oxygen due to a quickened bloodflow, the end result being one had to breathe faster, which wasted air that took a significant amount of money to recycle day in, and day out. Some more extreme space-stations actually made it illegal to run anywhere but in a gym, due to this reality alone. So when one was running as fast as Jonathan Serios found himself doing, they typically had a very good reason.

He crashed through the front doors to the Director for Affairs' office-building, not caring for its brightly lit air or its wooden walls or its carpeted floor, the only thing he had eyes for was the startled receptionist sitting at the desk next to the door that led to the DfA's private office. The brown-haired, middle-aged woman had her hand halfway to the silent alarm, when she realized that she recognized the man storming into the room as the Director for Defense, the second highest-ranked Officer in the Alliance Military, and largely considered the second most important man in all of Alliance space.

"Is he in?" He asked, out of breath, his voice deep and not carrying a hint of humor - he was as his nickname behind closed doors said he was, Deadly Serious.

The secretary blinked her dark eyes, stunned at the sight before her, as Serios held both doors open with both arms and was breathing heavily, as if he'd just ran a mile. Behind him, just arriving, were a dozen armed Secret Service agents in their dark suits, breathing calmly, as if they sprinted miles every day. "Yes, Director, but he -" She barely finished speaking the word 'yes' before Serios stormed inside and to the door she was in front of, the secretary tried standing up and stopping him before it was too late, but was unable to.

Serios entered in the middle of a negotiation with what looked like a Salarian Dalatrass, not their Councillor or their equivalent of the Director for Affairs, but still someone high up on the food chain. She bodily turned around, so her back was to Tyson and her face and chest faced Serios; Tyson, now that he wasn't watched, was giving Serios a glare that many during the man's rise to power had learned to fear. Unfortunately for Tyson, Serios had led his people through wars that paled in comparison to the leader in front of him, and though Tyson was a powerful man and a great leader, ever since Jason Whyte's retirement and the subsequent depowerment of the role of Director for Affairs, Tyson couldn't scare Serios even if he wanted to. The only thing the man in front of him truly had on him, was age - they were decades apart.

Serios nodded solemnly, "I apologize, Dalatrass." He said, kindly, but firmly. "But something has come up, and I need to steal the Director from you."

"Serios." Tyson interjected, "perhaps you do not recognize her, but this is Dalatrass Heyfiir. She directs trade for the entire Salarian Union, and is the first of the races with a seat on the Citadel Council to _offer_ a trade agreement with the Systems Alliance, in the wake of the Alliance/Hegemony War." He said, his tone making it clear that no matter what it was that was interrupting this meeting, he was not pleased.

"Director Tyson, I'm going to take one small step outside… Neither you nor I have the time to wait any longer. What's happening right now is _very important."_ Serios nodded and offered a brief apology to the Dalatrass, before he left. Not two minutes later, the Dalatrass left Tyson's office, and Serios was beckoned back in.

"Serios, you better have a very… _Very_ good reason for pulling that card. If it's anything less than the UN vote against us, your ass is -"

"Our probes have reported in and the entire Batarian navy Warped out of Citadel space and we don't know where they are." Said Serios, without a single pause for breath.

The mid-forties Director for Affairs' shoulders slumped, though his face didn't slack, merely settling into a neutral, if still somewhat angered, expression. "Oh." He said. "Well that's just perfect."

* * *

><p>Almost one thousand light years away, on a planet that precious few in the outside universe even knew existed, history was being made in more ways than its denizens thought possible. Standing tall at nine feet, the Praetorian of his race, Saltorian Jun Mun'Sid, could accurately predict the outcome of the conversation he had just initiated. He stood in the center of a room that was legendary amongst they who knew about it, the 'radio to the heavens' it was brightly lit and meticulously cleaned, its silver surfaces gleaming and dully reflecting everything that passed in front of them. In the center of the room stood the radio itself, which projected a to-scale hologram of the subject of the Praetorian's thoughts.<p>

The four eyed creature of the 'Batarian' race his people had made contact with months ago was bristling with rage, as he digested what the Saltorian had just informed him. "_Perhaps you do not understand what it is we are saying…"_ Said the man, an Admiral by the name of Treyfus. "_Our people are dying. Our enemy is ruthless, and our allies do nothing. You are uniquely positioned to strike at them directly, and with the technology we've sent you, once you construct it you could strike at them without warning, and together we could cripple their empire and defeat them once and for all!"_ He roared, livid beyond reason that the Saltorian was rejecting his offer.

The Saltorian stood his ground, his scarred face set in determination. For all of their efforts to convert him to their ideology, the Praetorian had studied them, dissected and analysed their every word, their every movement, their tone and verbiage, and had deemed them a worse kind of violent than their own: The Batarians were in denial. They were arrogant and prideful, but those factors could also describe Saltorians, so the Praetorian didn't care much, but what struck him was that, from their conversations, from the way they spoke and the words they chose, the Batarians seemed to be a violent race, but they denied it - pretending they weren't. This was likely what made them fall from grace and, it seemed, even _forget_ their god.

Jun cleared his throat spoke clearly, his deep, rumbly voice filling the air and travelling through the void between his planet and the Batarian's. "Admiral." He stated, his voice cutting through the silence of the room, and screaming its way across the cosmos. "I understand perfectly what you are saying. You are committing war and dedicating to genocide of another species. This is a race of thinking men, much like I, and much like you." _Or, at least, must like he should be, _the Praetorian mused. The creature didn't like to think much beyond its own base desires, it seemed, rather it deigned to force others to do its thinking for it. "Many eons ago, my people tried the same to our own, and the result was that we lost the favor of our god and entered a dark age that lasted for one hundred generations. We accept war is a part of our nature, but we wish to fight this nature, to embrace peace and abandon force. As such will not enter such a war without just cause or without provocation. I will not step down from this position, I will not invoke the wrath of He Above All upon us, or worse, prove to him that we truly are not worth his attention, his tireless effort. Prove to him that he can do nought but abandon us." He explained, "I do apologize for this… And I pray your people emerge victorious… Or at least as survivors." He bowed his scaled head solemnly.

The Praetorian noticed that the Batarian's fist clenched so tightly it shook. It seemed that some traits surpassed the species barrier, and he knew that the man was about to make a rash decision. The Praetorian's first instinct was to threaten the man, to try and curtail any potential violence, but any such threats could have any number of outcomes, so the best solution in this case would be merely to let the creature dig its own metaphorical grave. "_Let me tell you this, you pitiful… Underdeveloped _dreg." The Praetorian, the Studiers, everyone in the room went stone-still and silent, with the Praetorian slowly bringing his hands behind his back, so the Batarian would not see him clench them so hard that, were his claws extended, he would have pierced his scales. "_You will help us… Either as free men, or as _our _slaves."_ He pointed at the Saltorian, "_this is a war beyond your comprehension, and we are willing to _anything _to win it."_

The Saltorian shook his dark-scaled head, "I beg of you… Do _not_ do what I know you are about to. You will regret it. I will regret it. If you attack us, we will be in the right… We will be allowed to fight back in the favor of our god. We will be… Allowed… To _war…_ And that is not something I want us to experience, a righteous war. Our people will regress to our base desires, we will kill… Because, in the eyes of our god, we will be in the right. They will be on our side as we fight you… In a _Holy War."_ Everyone, from the lowliest studiers to even the veteran BattleVectors, all gasped; they knew what a Holy War meant, even if none alive had ever experienced one for themselves. "The first of its kind in over fifty thousand years." His deep voice shook, his tone almost taking a pleading edge to it, as he begged the alien creature to turn back now, before the point of no return. "If you engage us with the intent of forcing us to lay harm upon others searching for their gods… We will fight, for the first time in our history, for ourselves. You will show us..." He paused, taking a moment to gain his composure. "You will show us that there exists violence beyond our world. You will prove to us that it is not inherently self destructive, and therefor we could continue fighting as much as we please... We do not _want_ that. Our desire lies in peace, such that our god will look upon us favorably again. Like an addict in recovery... If you pursue this war, all of this... All of our progress... It will be undone... And I fear we will not stop until we fight you alongside your enemies... Our scales are covered in the blood and entrails of every single Batarian alive, and all of your worlds are burned in liquid fire." Jun clasped his hands behind his back, clenching them so hard that his bones creaked and his scales warped. "Please... There is another way. We could... We _can_ provide shelter, help you survive this war against your enemies, should you lose it. We could walk the path together, stand tall in the face of the universe, knowing that the Hoomanisire is on our side... But that is only... _Only_ if you do not bring war to our homes. We do not _want_ to fight you, but if there is no other solution... No other outcome... Us, or you... We will choose us, and beg for forgiveness at a later date."

The Batarian stared at him, all four eyes narrowed in hatred, before the hologram vanished, his answer clear to everyone present.

Jun sighed, and then took in a deep breath as he bowed his head and steeled his resolve. "Ready our Tyyrahn. Ready our BattleVectors. Ready our men and our women, ready our children. Arm our weapons and fuel our vehicles. Feed the war-mongrels and entice the Dregs. When the enemy comes to our door, we will not stop until we are all dead. We will kill them all, or we all will die. From the moment they enter our solar system and lay siege to our homes, we will hold nothing back. Surface, sea, sky, and space, we will fight on all fronts and we will kill all of them, no matter the cost, no matter the outcome, no matter the consequence.

"Because from this moment forward… I… Jun Mun'Sid… Call Holy War. The only victory will be in annihilation, or divine intervention." He clasped his clawed fist over his hearts, and looked upwards, towards a sky he could not see. "And should the Hoomanisire hear my words… Please forgive me for what I must do_." _He swallowed through a dry throat, his hearts fluttering. "Amen."

"_Amen."_ Repeated all of the Saltorians who heard him.


End file.
